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since then he’d done no more than talk about it.
    Yet his speeches must have made some difference, must have hindered the tyrant in his hellish designs to some extent. The outcry against Leopold had swelled measurably, and subscriptions to The Commoner had increased. The Benevolent Fund he and Mr. Owen’s Fabian Society had established had helped, but now it would be spent up. He hoped those who had contributed would appreciate the use to which it was about to be put.
    They turned down Police Court Street, accompanied only by ordinary passersby. Soon the Foyle flowed before them. Its broad waters lay for the most part in the shadow of the embankment on which they trod, only reflecting the sky’s lingering brightness far out near the river’s eastern shore.
    They stood still a moment, then promenaded slowly north as if admiring the view while Owen laid forth the particulars of his plan. Leopold wanted to sell a far greater portion of his holdings than they had asked for. “About half is what it comes to, as you’ll have deduced from the deed,” Owen said. “Of course, now he wants more money than we’ve raised.”
    Thomas hid his traitor hands in the capacious pockets of his Chesterfield. Was the purchase not to go through, then?
    â€œWhich brings me to my proposal.”
    He kept his voice smooth. “And that is—”
    â€œI have a rich donor. Anonymous. He will provide the complete sum necessary for the sale, leaving what we’ve collected to be used in buying equipment, supplies, hiring ships—and to be given as grants—small grants—to our settlers.”
    â€œGrants to—” Now even Thomas’s well-trained voice failed. The fading clouds above rolled back in his vision to reveal fields of diamonds, paving stones of everlasting pearl—
    The smell of tobacco recalled him to the stony earth. Owen was offering him a cigar. He accepted it—a bad habit, smoking, but one he’d never been able to rid himself of. Presently the two of them sent up grey clouds to mingle with the wisps of cirrus gradually disappearing into the darkness.
    They continued walking and talking. At first Thomas had a hard time suppressing his elation. But there would be so much work. He soon sobered. Recruiting suitable families for the colony would be rendered both easier and more difficult by the funds to be disbursed. And on what would these grants’ exact amounts be based: Skills? Need? The number of souls in a household? Ought they to be advertised openly, or would that attract too many adventurers? Should monies be advanced before recruits set foot in Africa so that they might pay their own passage there, or was this a sure invitation to fraud? Thomas’s head fairly spun with questions. All the while he made out to Owen that he was calm, collected, and utterly assured of the next steps they would need to take.
    â€œUnless we mean to walk all the way to Lisahally, it’s time to head back.” Owen sounded regretful about stopping, as if ready to proceed down to Loch Foyle at the slightest hint of willingness on Thomas’s part. Turning to confirm this impression, Thomas realized with a shock he could barely see the pale blur of the white man’s face. The night was moonless, and they’d arrived at a district of industrial docks and warehouses, poorly lighted. Peering about, Thomas found no obvious assassins lurking nearby. Ahead hulked a crane. Its huge iron hook dangled into the ruddy glare thrown through a window high in the black bulk of some otherwise featureless building. The wind carried scents of soot and rust and tar.
    â€œYes. No doubt.” They reversed their course and sped up. He still held the cigar, which had ceased burning, unattended.
    He could think of no way to find out other than asking. “Who is your anonymous backer?”
    â€œAh. That would be telling. And you are a journalist.”
    â€œAnd your