The girl had moved a step towards him as she spoke,and a gleam of sunlight which had found its way into the grove flashed for a moment on the.stray little curls of her brown-gold hair and across her face.Her lips were parted in a delightful smile;she was very pretty,and inclined to be apologetic.But Scarlett Trent had seen nothing save that first glance when the sun had touched her face with fire.A strong man at all times,and more than commonly self-masterful,he felt himself now as helpless as a child.Asudden pallor had whitened his face to the lips,there were strange singings in his ears,and a mist before his eyes.It was she!
There was no possibility of any mistake.It was the girl for whose picture he had gambled in the hut at Bekwando -Monty's baby-girl,of whom he had babbled even in death.He leaned against a tree,stricken dumb,and she was frightened."You are ill,"she cried.
"I'm so sorry.Let me run to the house and fetch some one!"He had strength enough to stop her.A few deep breaths and he was himself again,shaken and with a heart beating like a steam-engine,but able at least to talk intelligently.
"I'm sorry -didn't mean to frighten you,"he said."It's the heat.
I get an attack like this sometimes.Yes,I'm Mr.Trent.I don't know what you're doing here,but you're welcome.""How nice of you to say so!"she answered brightly."But then perhaps you'll change your mind when you know what I have been doing."He laughed shortly.
"Nothing terrible,I should say."Looks as though you've been making a picture of my house;I don't mind that."She dived in her pocket and produced a card-case.
"I'll make full confession,"she said frankly."I'm a journalist.""A what!"he repeated feebly.
"A journalist.I'm on the Hour.This isn't my work as a rule;but the man who should have come is ill,and his junior can't sketch,so they sent me!Don't look as though I were a ghost,please.
Haven't you ever heard of a girl journalist before?""Never,"he answered emphatically."I didn't know that ladies did such things!"She laughed gaily but softly;and Trent understood then what was meant by the music of a woman's voice.
"Oh,it's not at all an uncommon thing,"she answered him."You won't mind my interviewing you,will you?""Doing what?"he asked blankly.
"Interviewing you!That's what I've come for,you know;and we want a little sketch of your house for the paper.I know you don't like it.I hear you've been awfully rude to poor little Morrison of the Post;but I'll be very careful what I say,and very quick."He stood looking at her,a dazed and bewildered man.From the trim little hat,with its white band and jaunty bunch of cornflowers,to the well-shaped patent shoes,she was neatly and daintily dressed.
A journalist!He gazed once more into her face,at the brown eyes watching him now a little anxiously,the mouth with the humorous twitch at the corner of her lips.The little wisps of hair flashed again in the sunlight.It was she!He had found her.
She took his silence for hesitation,and continued a little anxiously.
"I really won't ask you many questions,and it would do me quite a lot of good to get an interview with you.Of course I oughtn't to have begun this sketch without permission.If you mind that,I'll give it up."He found his tongue awkwardly,but vigorously.
"You can sketch just as long as ever you please,and make what use of it you like,"he said."It's only a bit of a place though!""How nice of you!And the interview?""I'll tell you whatever you want to know,"he said quietly.
