daughter. Come now!"
Willems stopped suddenly and swayed about.

"Ah! I understand," he gasped. "I never heard . . . Lately I
thought there was . . . But no, I never guessed."

"Oh, you simpleton!" said Lingard, pityingly. "'Pon my word," he
muttered to himself, "I don't believe the fellow knew. Well!

well! Steady now. Pull yourself together. What's wrong there.
She is a good wife to you."

"Excellent wife," said Willems, in a dreary voice, looking far
over the black and scintillating water.

"Very well then," went on Lingard, with increasing friendliness.
"Nothing wrong there. But did you really think that Hudig was

marrying you off and giving you a house and I don't know what,
out of love for you?"

"I had served him well," answered Willems. "How well, you know
yourself--through thick and thin. No matter what work and what

risk, I was always there; always ready."
How well he saw the greatness of his work and the immensity of

that injustice which was his reward. She was that man's daughter!
In the light of this disclosure the facts of the last five years

of his life stood clearly revealed in their full meaning. He had
spoken first to Joanna at the gate of their dwelling as he went

to his work in the brilliant flush of the early morning, when
women and flowers are charming even to the dullest eyes. A most

respectable family--two women and a young man--were his next-door
neighbours. Nobody ever came to their little house but the

priest, a native from the Spanish islands, now and then. The
young man Leonard he had met in town, and was flattered by the

little fellow's immense respect for the great Willems. He let
him bring chairs, call the waiters, chalk his cues when playing

billiards, express his admiration in choice words. He even
condescended to listen patiently to Leonard's allusions to "our

beloved father," a man of official position, a government agent
in Koti, where he died of cholera, alas! a victim to duty, like a

good Catholic, and a good man. It sounded very respectable, and
Willems approved of those feeling references. Moreover, he

prided himself upon having no colour-prejudices and no racial
antipathies. He consented to drink curacoa one afternoon on the

verandah of Mrs. da Souza's house. He remembered Joanna that
day, swinging in a hammock. She was untidy even then, he

remembered, and that was the only impression he carried away from
that visit. He had no time for love in those glorious days, no

time even for a passing fancy, but gradually he fell into the
habit of calling almost every day at that little house where he

was greeted by Mrs. da Souza's shrill voice screaming for Joanna
to come and entertain the gentleman from Hudig & Co. And then

the sudden and unexpected visit of the priest. He remembered the
man's flat, yellow face, his thin legs, his propitiatory smile,

his beaming black eyes, his conciliating manner, his veiled hints
which he did not understand at the time. How he wondered what

the man wanted, and how unceremoniously he got rid of him. And
then came vividly into his recollection the morning when he met

again that fellow coming out of Hudig's office, and how he was
amused at the incongruous visit. And that morning with Hudig!

Would he ever forget it? Would he ever forget his surprise as
the master, instead of plunging at once into business, looked at

him thoughtfully before turning, with a furtive smile, to the
papers on the desk? He could hear him now, his nose in the paper

before him, dropping astonishing words in the intervals of wheezy
breathing.

"Heard said . . . called there often . . . most respectable
ladies . . . knew the father very well . . . estimable . . . best

thing for a young man . . . settle down. . . . Personally, very
glad to hear . . . thing arranged. . . . Suitable recognition of

valuable services. . . . Best thing--best thing to do."
And he believed! What credulity! What an ass! Hudig knew the

father! Rather. And so did everybody else probably; all except
himself. How proud he had been of Hudig's benevolent interest in

his fate! How proud he was when invited by Hudig to stay with
him at his little house in the country--where he could meet men,

men of official position--as a friend. Vinck had been green with
envy. Oh, yes! He had believed in the best thing, and took the

girl like a gift of fortune. How he boasted to Hudig of being
free from prejudices. The old scoundrel must have been laughing

in his sleeve at his fool of a confidential clerk. He took the
girl, guessing nothing. How could he? There had been a father

of some kind to the common knowledge. Men knew him; spoke about
him. A lank man of hopelessly mixed descent, but

otherwise--apparently--unobjectionable. The shady relations came
out afterward, but--with his freedom from prejudices--he did not

mind them, because, with their humbledependence, they completed
his triumphant life. Taken in! taken in! Hudig had found an

easy way to provide for the begging crowd. He had shifted the
burden of his youthful vagaries on to the shoulders of his

confidential clerk; and while he worked for the master, the
master had cheated him; had stolen his very self from him. He

was married. He belonged to that woman, no matter what she might
do! . . . Had sworn . . . for all life! . . . Thrown himself

away. . . . And that man dared this very morning call him a
thief! Damnation!

"Let go, Lingard!" he shouted, trying to get away by a sudden
jerk from the watchful old seaman. "Let me go and kill that . .

."
"No you don't!" panted Lingard, hanging on manfully. "You want

to kill, do you? You lunatic. Ah!--I've got you now! Be quiet,
I say!"

They struggled violently, Lingard forcing Willems slowly towards
the guard-rail. Under their feet the jetty sounded like a drum

in the quiet night. On the shore end the native caretaker of the
wharf watched the combat, squatting behind the safe shelter of

some big cases. The next day he informed his friends, with calm
satisfaction, that two drunken white men had fought on the jetty.

It had been a great fight. They fought without arms, like wild
beasts, after the manner of white men. No! nobody was killed, or

there would have been trouble and a report to make. How could he
know why they fought? White men have no reason when they are

like that.
Just as Lingard was beginning to fear that he would be unable to

restrain much longer the violence of the younger man, he felt
Willems' muscles relaxing, and took advantage of this opportunity

to pin him, by a last effort, to the rail. They both panted
heavily, speechless, their faces very close.

"All right," muttered Willems at last. "Don't break my back over
this infernal rail. I will be quiet."

"Now you are reasonable," said Lingard, much relieved. "What
made you fly into that passion?" he asked, leading him back to

the end of the jetty, and, still holding him prudently with one
hand, he fumbled with the other for his whistle and blew a shrill

and prolonged blast. Over the smooth water of the roadstead came
in answer a faint cry from one of the ships at anchor.

"My boat will be here directly," said Lingard. "Think of what
you are going to do. I sail to-night."

"What is there for me to do, except one thing?" said Willems,
gloomily.

"Look here," said Lingard; "I picked you up as a boy, and
consider myself responsible for you in a way. You took your life

into your own hands many years ago--but still . . ."
He paused, listening, till he heard the regular grind of the oars

in the rowlocks of the approaching boat then went on again.
"I have made it all right with Hudig. You owe him nothing now.

Go back to your wife. She is a good woman. Go back to her."
"Why, Captain Lingard," exclaimed Willems, "she . . ."

"It was most affecting," went on Lingard, without heeding him.
"I went to your house to look for you and there I saw her