Mrs. Willoughby woke, because of an insinuating pressure on her thigh. Hearing her stir on the other side of the thin wall that separated her room from mine, I went to her. “My sleep was disturbed,” she said. “By someone who entered through the French windows without invitation and stood— there, at the foot of the bed. He stood a long time, watching me sleep, with his hand clutching my thigh. Don’t ask me how I know.”
“Perhaps you dreamed it,” I suggested.
She lifted her nightdress so that I might regard five small bruises on an otherwise immaculate leg.
I regarded them gladly.
“One doesn’t expect a nightmare mauling to leave marks!”
she replied tartly.
“Was any further harm done you?” I asked, turning away to conceal my anxiety.
She was silent a moment, taking stock. Out in Kilindini Harbor, a hippo snorted. A hyena laughed somewhere in the night. She shook her head and sighed, “It is always so when Mr. Willoughby is out seeing to his affairs.”
Mr. Willoughby managed the Ugand…