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 "Giles, I want your advice; can you spare half an hour?"

"Certainly, old chap; fire away." Giles had advised Dessalines before, in regard to matters of etiquette, dress, English social customs, in all of which the Haytian had proved a quick and apt pupil.

The black face clouded again; he glanced at the letter which he held, and began to mumble the words as if seeking to impress something upon his mind. His brow furrowed, he raised one huge hand to the kinky scalp—the action of a perplexed schoolboy; finally he looked up with an expression of despair.

"I'll have to begin at the very start, if you don't mind," he said.

"Right," said Giles, pulling out his cigarette case.

"When you were here the other day," began Dessalines slowly, "I told you something of my personal history. …" He paused. Giles moved uneasily; he had not anticipated the resumption of a subject which had been disagreeable to him. Dessalines leaned back, brought together the tips of his thick fingers, stared down at the lake, and continued in his heavy, hollow-mouthed negro voice.

"I told you that my father was a man high in Haytian politics; also of his ambitions for me. Some weeks ago I received a letter from him in which he informed me that there was approaching an important political crisis in Hayti; that he—eh—that President Sam would probably abdicate in August, and that as a result there would be several adverse factions striving for the presidency."

Giles looked infinitely relieved; he had feared that 139