THE YELLOW GOD: AN IDOL OF AFRICA

CHAPTER I

SAHARA LIMITED

Sir Robert Aylward, Bart., M.P., sat in his office in the City of
London. It was a very magnificent office, quite one of the finest that
could be found within half a mile of the Mansion House. Its exterior
was built of Aberdeen granite, a material calculated to impress the
prospective investor with a comfortable sense of security. Other stucco,
or even brick-built, offices might crumble and fall in an actual or a
financial sense, but this rock-like edifice of granite, surmounted by a
life-sized statue of Justice with her scales, admired from either corner
by pleasing effigies of Commerce and of Industry, would surely endure
any shock. Earthquake could scarcely shake its strong foundations; panic
and disaster would as soon affect the Bank of England. That at least
was the impression which it had been designed to convey, and not without
success.

"There is so much in externals," Mr. Champers-Haswell, Sir Robert's
partner, would say in his cheerful voice. "We are all of us influenced
by them, however unconsciously. Impress the public, my dear Aylward. Let
solemnity without suggest opulence within, and the bread, or rather the
granite, which you throw upon the waters will come back to you after
many days."

Mr. Aylward, for this conversation occurred before his merits or the
depth of his purse had been rewarded by a baronetcy, looked at his
partner in the impassive fashion for which he was famous, and answered:

"You mix your metaphors, Haswell, but if you mean that the public are
fools who must be caught by advertisement, I agree with you. Only this
particular advertisement is expensive and I do not want to wait many
days for my reward. However, £20,000 one way or the other is a small
matter, so tell that architect to do the thing in granite."

Sir Robert Aylward sat in his own quiet room at the back of this
enduring building, a very splendid room that any Secretary of State
might have envied, but arranged in excellent taste. Its walls were
panelled with figured teak, a rich carpet made the footfall noiseless,
an antique Venus stood upon a marble pedestal in the corner, and over
the mantelpiece hung a fine portrait by Gainsborough, that of a certain
Miss Aylward, a famous beauty in her day, with whom, be it added, its
present owner could boast no connection whatsoever.

Sir Robert was seated at his ebony desk playing with a pencil, and the
light from a cheerful fire fell upon his face.