Trent's face grew serious. This was bad news for him, and he was thankful that they had not carried out their first plan and commenced their prospecting at Bekwando village. “We have a charter,” he said, “and, if necessary, we must fight. I'm glad to be prepared though.” “A charter!” Francis pulled himself together and looked curiously at the man who was still bending over him. “Great Heavens!” he exclaimed, “why, you are Scarlett Trent, the man whom I met with poor Villiers in Bekwando years ago.” Trent nodded. “We waited for you,” he said, “to witness our concession. I thought that you would remember.” “I thought,” Francis said slowly, “that there was something familiar about you.... I remember it all now. You were gambling with poor old Monty for his daughter's picture against a bottle of brandy.” Trent winced a little. “You have an excellent memory,” he said drily. Francis raised himself a little, and a fiercer note crept into his tone. “It is coming back to me,” he said. “I remember more about you now, Scarlett Trent. You are the man who left his partner to die in a jungle, that you might rob him of his share in the concession. Oh yes, you see my memory is coming back! I have an account against you, my man.” “It's a lie!” said Trent passionately. “When I left him, I honestly believed him to be a dead man.” “How many people will believe that?” Francis scoffed. “I shall take Monty with me to England. I have finished with this country for awhile--and then--and then--” He was exhausted, and sank back speechless. Trent sat and watched him, smoking in thoughtful silence. They two were a little apart from the others, and Francis was fainting. A hand upon his throat--a drop from that phial in the medicine-chest--and his faint would carry him into eternity. And still Trent sat and smoked. CHAPTER XXVI