"I don't think so."
"Don't tell me anything you don't want to," I said, by way of encouraging him.
"I fancy that this is a young man we should all be very glad to lay our hands on."
"Not?" I cried, in rising excitement.
He nodded.
"Harry Rayburn, alias Harry Lucas—that's his real name, you know. He's given us all the slip once more, but we're bound to rope him in soon."
"Dear me, dear me," I murmured.
"We don't suspect the girl of complicity in any case. On her side it's—just a love-affair."
I always did think Race was in love with Anne. The way he said those last words made me feel sure of it.
"She's gone to Beira," he continued rather hastily.
"Indeed," I said, staring. "How do you know?"
"She wrote to me from Bulawayo, telling me she was going home that way. The best thing she can do, poor child."
"Somehow, I don't fancy she is in Beira," I said meditatively.
"She was just starting when she wrote."
I was puzzled. Somebody was clearly lying. Without stopping to reflect that Anne might have excellent reasons for her misleading statements, I gave myself up to the pleasure of scoring off Race. He is always so cocksure. I took the telegram from my pocket and handed it to him.
"Then how do you explain this?" I asked nonchalantly.
He seemed dumbfounded.
"She said she was just starting for Beira," he said, in a dazed voice.
I know that Race is supposed to be clever. He is, in
