The Man in the Brown Suit

Eighteen
(Anne’s Narrative Resumed)
I
don’t suppose that as long as I live I shall forget my first sight of Table Mountain. I got up
frightfully early and went out on deck. I went right up to the boat deck, which I believe is a
heinous offence, but I decided to dare something in the cause of solitude. We were just
steaming into Table Bay. There were fleecy white clouds hovering above Table Mountain,
and nestling on the slopes below, right down to the sea, was the sleeping town, gilded and
bewitched by the morning sunlight.
It made me catch my breath and have that curious hungry pain inside that seizes one
sometimes when one comes across something that’s extra beautiful. I’m not very good at
expressing these things, but I knew well enough that I had found, if only for a fleeting
moment, the thing that I had been looking for ever since I left Little Hampsley. Something
new, something hitherto undreamed of, something that satisfied my aching hunger for
romance.
Perfectly silently, or so it seemed to me, the 
Kilmorden
glided nearer and nearer. It was
still very like a dream. Like all dreamers, however, I could not let my dream alone. We
poor humans are so anxious not to miss anything.
“This is South Africa,” I kept saying to myself industriously. “South Africa, South Africa.
You are seeing the world. This is the world. You are seeing it. Think of it, Anne
Beddingfeld, you pudding head. You’re seeing the world.”
I had thought that I had the boat deck to myself, but now I observed another figure leaning
over the rail, absorbed as I had been in the rapidly approaching city. Even before he turned
his head I knew who it was. The scene of last night seemed unreal and melodramatic in the
peaceful morning sunshine. What must he have thought of me? It made me hot to realize the
things that I had said. And I hadn’t meant them—or had I?
I turned my head resolutely away, and stared hard at Table Mountain. If Rayburn had
come up here to be alone, I, at least, need not disturb him by advertising my presence.
But to my intense surprise I heard a light footfall on the deck behind me, and then his
voice, pleasant and normal:
“Miss Beddingfeld.”
“Yes?”
I turned.

---

“I want to apologize to you. I behaved like a perfect boor last night.”
“It—it was a peculiar night,” I said hastily.
It was not a very lucid remark, but it was absolutely the only thing I could think of.
“Will you forgive me?”
I held out my hand without a word. He took it.
“There’s something else I want to say.” His gravity deepened. “Miss Beddingfeld, you
may not know it, but you are mixed up in a rather dangerous business.”
“I gather as much,” I said.
“No, you don’t. You can’t possibly know. I want to warn you. Leave the whole thing
alone. It can’t concern you really. Don’t let your curiosity lead you to tamper with other
people’s business. No, please don’t get angry again. I’m not speaking of myself. You’ve no
idea of what you might come up against—these men will stop at nothing. They are
absolutely ruthless. Already you’re in danger—look at last night. They fancy you know
something. Your only chance is to persuade them that they’re mistaken. But be careful,
always be on the lookout for danger, and, look here, if at anytime you should fall into their
hands, don’t try and be clever—tell the whole truth; it will be your only chance.”
“You make my flesh creep, Mr. Rayburn,” I said, with some truth. “Why do you take the
trouble to warn me?”
He did not answer for some minutes, then he said in a low voice:
“It may be the last thing I can do for you. Once on shore I shall be all right—but I may not
get onshore.”
“What?” I cried.
“You see, I’m afraid you’re not the only person onboard who knows that I am ‘The Man
in the Brown Suit.’ ”
“If you think that I told—” I said hotly.
He reassured me with a smile.
“I don’t doubt you, Miss Beddingfeld. If I ever said I did, I lied. No, but there’s one
person onboard who’s known all along. He’s only to speak—and my number’s up. All the
same, I’m taking a sporting chance that he won’t speak.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s a man who likes playing a lone hand. And when the police have got me I
should be of no further use to him. Free, I might be! Well, an hour will show.”
He laughed rather mockingly, but I saw his face harden. If he had gambled with Fate, he

---

was a good gambler. He could lose and smile.
“In any case,” he said lightly, “I don’t suppose we shall meet again.”
“No,” I said slowly. “I suppose not.”
“So—good-bye.”
“Good-bye.”
He gripped my hand hard, just for a minute his curious light eyes seemed to burn into
mine, then he turned abruptly and left me. I heard his footsteps ringing along the deck. They
echoed and reechoed. I felt that I should hear them always. Footsteps—going out of my life.
I can admit frankly that I did not enjoy the next two hours. Not till I stood on the wharf,
having finished with most of the ridiculous formalities that bureaucracies require, did I
breathe freely once more. No arrest had been made, and I realized that it was a heavenly
day, and that I was extremely hungry. I joined Suzanne. In any case, I was staying the night
with her at the hotel. The boat did not go on to Port Elizabeth and Durban until the following
morning. We got into a taxi and drove to the Mount Nelson.
It was all heavenly. The sun, the air, the flowers! When I thought of Little Hampsley in
January, the mud knee-deep, and the sure-to-be-falling rain, I hugged myself with delight.
Suzanne was not nearly so enthusiastic. She has travelled a great deal of course. Besides,
she is not the type that gets excited before breakfast. She snubbed me severely when I let out
an enthusiastic yelp at the sight of a giant blue convolvulus.
By the way, I should like to make clear here and now that this story will not be a story of
South Africa. I guarantee no genuine local colour—you know the sort of thing—half a dozen
words in italics on every page. I admire it very much, but I can’t do it. In South Sea Islands,
of course, you make an immediate reference to