He listened without a
word, and when I had finished said:
"I may as well tell what perhaps you have guessed, that the picture is
that of my wife, and the book is her book."
"Is!" I exclaimed.
"Yes, Allan. I say /is/ because I do not believe that she is dead. I
cannot explain why, any more than I could explain last night how that
great Zulu savage was able to prophesy my coming. But sometimes we can
wring secrets from the Unknown, and I believe that I have won this
truth in answer to my prayers, that my wife still lives."
"After twenty years, John?"
"Yes, after twenty years. Why do you suppose," he asked almost
fiercely, "that for two-thirds of a generation I have wandered about
among African savages, pretending to be crazy because these wild
people revere the mad and always let them pass unharmed?"
"I thought it was to collect butterflies and botanical specimens."
"Butterflies and botanical specimens! These were the pretext. I have
been and am searching for my wife. You may think it a folly,
especially considering what was her condition when we separated--she
was expecting a child, Allan--but I do not.
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