Chapter VII

“_In my ears, like distant washing_
_Of the surf upon the shore,_
_Drones a murmur, faintly splashing,_
_’Tis the splash of Charon’s oar._”

Two hours later Leslie was sitting before a gas fire in a bedroom of a Bloomsbury boarding-house. During the last few months two men, both strangers, both met in the most casual manner, both entirely different from any who had come into her life before, had taken it upon themselves to give her advice. And, in each case, she had preferred her own immature judgment. Moreover, Mr. Lebrassa had not taken any part of the ell mentioned by Captain Fletcher. The mulatto had not shown any desire to meet her again, or invited her out to dinner or a theater, or even attempted to pay for her tea, as she had feared he might. He had merely said that, if she insisted on going to Mrs. Cooper, he had been instructed to book a passage for her and take charge of her on the way out. And he had left saying he would write and let her know the boat and the time of sailing, and would meet her in Liverpool, if she persisted in her foolish decision.

About a month later Leslie stepped out of a train in one of the principal Liverpool stations.

“You see I’ve come, Mr. Lebrassa, in spite of your advice,” was her greeting to the man who came forward to meet her.

“So I see, but it’s still not too late to turn back.”

“I never intended to do anything but go from the moment I got that letter.”

Rather abruptly he turned away to see after her luggage.

“Would you rather walk or ride down to the boat, Miss Graham?” he asked when this was disposed of. “We’ve two hours yet before sailing; I suggest walking so that you can take a last, long, lingering farewell of England.”

“Why a last farewell?”

“West Africa, I fancy, has a higher European death rate than any place on earth. Haven’t you heard our rhyme?

“‘Beware, take care of the Bight of Benin, Where for one that comes out there are forty stay in.’”

“But I’m not going there,” she replied. “I’m going to the Bight of Biafra.”

“That’s next door.”

“You _are_ cheerful. I’d better walk and make the most of being alive now, for you seem to think I’m going to swell the forty. Who knows? I may prove to be the fortunate one who comes out.”

In a grim way, Lebrassa smiled. Then he piloted his charge out of the busy station into the street beyond.

“I’m so glad I’m going to Molly,” Leslie said. “I’d put up with anything to be with her.”

Lebrassa, however, appeared to be lost in thoughts of his own. For the next few minutes he answered her remarks in a very haphazard manner. Presently, in one of the main thoroughfares, a large florist’s shop brought him to a halt.

“Miss Graham, may I buy you a flower before you leave England?”

His request was followed by a moment’s silence. Then Leslie thought of the inch that had never been exceeded.

“What a nice idea,” she said. “It’ll take away the taste of that dreadful Bight of Benin you spoke about.”

On entering the shop Lebrassa appeared to want rosebuds--small white rosebuds, and only one of these. But he had every specimen in the place brought out for his inspection.

Leslie watched him as he went over them, examining each carefully.

“You’re very difficult to please,” she said at length.

“I can’t find what I want--one with just two petals curled back, quite white and without a flaw.”

“What about this?” she inquired, putting a finger on a perfect specimen he had just discarded.

“It’s not absolutely white. The one I want must have no tinge of color.”

“Really suitable for my funeral wreath,” she suggested.

In a grim, mirthless manner he smiled.

“That I’ve not quite decided,” he replied.

He continued his search.

“There,” he said at length, placing a flower on the counter before her.

As Leslie pinned it on her coat, in a contemplative way he watched her.

“Out in Africa I’ve a rose garden,” he said presently. “It has been my hobby and recreation for nearly twenty years. But I’ve never had my flowers quite white. They’ve always had a tinge of color. Some day, perhaps, you may see it.”

“Is it near Calabar?” she asked.

“Near Calabar!” he echoed.

Then, in a savage manner, he laughed.

“It’s some distance from Calabar,” he finished with peculiar emphasis.

For some reason she could not fathom, Leslie shivered.