Upon Matheson's replying that the hour of departure was a matter of indifference to him, the proprietor fixed it for four o'clock, when the great heat would be decreasing, and driving across the veld could be undertaken with less discomfort. He seemed anxious to do his best for his guest. "Will I put a gun in the cart?" he asked. "With luck, you should see some birds as you travel. There is good sport on the flats." Matheson accepted gratefully. If Krige could offer something in the way of shooting, his stay at Benfontein would not lack compensation. He regretted that he had no gun with him. But on a farm a spare gun is usually available, the etiquette of the veld being strictly in accord with the principle of the traveller's right to hospitality, which includes the enjoyment of one's goods--providing always that he does not travel on foot. CHAPTER NINE. It was manifest to Matheson on his arrival at Benfontein that he was not expected. He had taken it for granted that Holman would inform these people of his coming, and instead he found it necessary to explain himself to the swarthy young Dutchman who came out of the house, when the cart drew up beside the big aloes that formed a hedge dividing the garden from the veld, and strolled leisurely forward with no great display of eagerness to receive the traveller. He descended from the Cape Cart and faced him. "Is it Mr Krige?" he asked. "Yes," replied the Dutchman, and regarded him with something like distrust blended with dislike, and waited for further enlightenment. "My name's Matheson," the visitor announced, and, perceiving that the name conveyed nothing to his listener, he added: "I thought Holman would have prepared you for my visit. Perhaps I had better give you his letter, which will explain things." He felt in his pocket for the letter, and presented it. Krige, taking it in the left hand, deliberately extended the right. "That is all right," he said. "I did not know. A friend of Mr Holman is very welcome." He spoke in Dutch to the coloured driver, who climbed down from the cart and started to take out the horses. One of Krige's boys sauntered forward to his assistance; and a woman, who, judging from the likeness between them, was Krige's sister, appeared on the shadeless stoep, and looked on with detached interest at the scene beyond the aloe hedge. Matheson judged her to be about thirty. She was swarthy, like her brother, with a deepening brown on the neck that suggested a strain of native blood somewhere in the Krige ancestry. Her eyes were very dark, and sombre in expression, which robbed them, as it robbed her face, of actual beauty, and lent both a tragic, almost a sullen air. Looking at her a stranger would pronounce unhesitatingly that hers had been a tragic life. At least it was a life which had known tragedy, and had nursed its bitterness throughout the years.