She felt sick in mind and body, sick with a growing hopelessness
which she would not acknowledge. The thing could not be lost. She
knew that Burke had slept in the room, and none of the servants had
been alone in it since. So the key must be somewhere there, must
have been kicked into some corner, or caught in a crack. She had
felt so certain of finding it that she had not thought it necessary
to tell Burke of her carelessness. But now she began to wish she
had told him. Her anxiety was turning to a perfect fever of
apprehension. The conviction was beginning to force itself upon
her that someone must have found the key.
But who--who? No Kaffir, she was certain. No Kaffir had entered.
And Burke had been there all night long. He had slept in the long
chair, giving up his bed to the guest. And he had slept late,
tired out after the violent exertions of the previous day.
He had slept late! Suddenly, there on her knees in the litter of
sand, another thought flashed through her brain, the thought of her
own sleeplessness, the thought of the early morning, the thought of
Guy.
He had been up early. He generally rested till late in the
morning. He too had been sleepless. But he had a remedy for that
which she knew he would not scruple to take if he felt the need.
His wild excitement of the night before rose up before her.
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