Late the next evening she arrived ahead of rumour at the armed camp of the central mission. Off the river’s landing-stage she met some one she knew who directed her to Mr. Trimblerigg’s quarters. ‘I think he has turned in. Shall I call him?’ he asked. ‘I’ll call him myself,’ she replied, ‘if you don’t mind. It will be a nice little surprise for him.’ He gave her the necessary password through the lines, for the camp was well guarded, double sentries everywhere. The coming of a white woman seemed to startle them, being so much less explainable than a ghost; but she and her monkey got through. Coming to a window covered by a chick-blind and showing no light, she lifted the blind and looked in. CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN _A Night’s Repose_ Mr. Trimblerigg, lying on his well-earned bed, was looking out through the dark canes of the chick at the large-eyed tropical night, when an opaque and curiously crested form entered his square of vision. The chick lifted, to the flash of a torchlight the crest detached itself, and a small scarlet-coated monkey leapt down on to the bed. This incongruous combination scared his calculating wits out of him; snatching his revolver he fired without aim. The monkey, chattering in alarm, skipped back to the shoulder it had sprung from. ‘Missed again!’ said a familiar voice. ‘How do you do, Jonathan? May I come in?’ She clambered in as she spoke, and sat upon the bed, while Mr. Trimblerigg, exclamatory with anger and apology, lighted the lamp and stared at the unwelcome apparition. Met under such nightmare conditions, they did not stop to embrace. ‘So that was your object-lesson, was it?’ said Davidina. ‘Bad shot. What made you do it?’ ‘_You_ made me do it!’ retorted Mr. Trimblerigg sharply. ‘A fool’s trick, coming like that! How could I tell it was you?’ ‘You couldn’t. But what are your sentries for? Haven’t you enough of them to feel safe?’ Mr. Trimblerigg, defending himself, gave away more of the situation than he intended. ‘Why, it might have been a sentry himself!’ he exclaimed. ‘You can’t trust one of them.’ ‘Not even your converted Christians?’ ‘Not as things are now. Christians?--scratch the surface, and you find they go pagan again.’ ‘So you’ve been scratching them?’ ‘No need. They scratch themselves; it’s reversion to type; the commonest disease missions have to contend with.’ ‘And catching to civilization,’ remarked Davidina; ‘A scratch lot, all of you.’ Then, as Mr. Trimblerigg looked at her with furtive suspicion, ‘I’ve been interviewing a specimen,’ she said; ‘one of yours.’ She named her man. ‘He seemed honest enough,’ she went on, ‘but he’s been scratched badly, acting (_he_ says) under your orders.’ Mr. Trimblerigg bristled to the implied criticism. ‘He has only done what was absolutely necessary.’