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"I should be sorry to think myself singled out for his distrust," he
replied. "At the same time, I don't notice that he has much to say to
certain other people--to the Commissioner, for instance, or to Mr.
Muhlen."
"Muhlen? He is quite right to leave Muhlen alone. Quite right. It
proves his intuition. I have learnt all about that man. A beastly
character. He has a bad record. Lives on blackmail and women. His real
name is Retlow."
And Mr. Keith lit a cigar, as though to dismiss the subject.
"Retlow, you say? That's queer."
The name sounded familiar to the bishop. Where had he heard it before?
He racked his memory. Where could it have been? Retlow. . . . It was
not a common name. Long ago, obviously. Where?
In African days, or earlier?
His searchings were interrupted by the voice of the old boatman who,
relinquishing an oar, pointed to a swart precipice near at hand and
said in tolerable English (the older generation of natives all spoke
English--their children were learning Russian):
"The suicides' rock, gentlemens.


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