Renouard, his hand grasping the back of a chair, stared down at him
dumbly.

"Phew! That's a stunning girl. . . Why do you want to sit on that
chair? It's uncomfortable!"

"I wasn't going to sit on it." Renouard walked slowly to the
window, glad to find in himself enough self-control to let go the

chair instead of raising it on high and bringing it down on the
Editor's head.

"Willie kept on gazing at her with tears in his boiled eyes. You
should have seen him bending sentimentally over her at dinner."

"Don't," said Renouard in such an anguished tone that the Editor
turned right round to look at his back.

"You push your dislike of young Dunster too far. It's positively
morbid," he disapproved mildly. "We can't be all beautiful after

thirty. . . . I talked a little, about you mostly, to the
professor. He appeared to be interested in the silk plant - if

only as a change from the great subject. Miss Moorsom didn't seem
to mind when I confessed to her that I had taken you into the

confidence of the thing. Our Willie approved too. Old Dunster
with his white beard seemed to give me his blessing. All those

people have a great opinion of you, simply because I told them that
you've led every sort of life one can think of before you got

struck on exploration. They want you to make suggestions. What do
you think 'Master Arthur' is likely to have taken to?"

"Something easy," muttered Renouard without unclenching his teeth.
"Hunting man. Athlete. Don't be hard on the chap. He may be

riding boundaries, or droving cattle, or humping his swag about the
back-blocks away to the devil - somewhere. He may be even

prospecting at the back of beyond - this very moment."
"Or lying dead drunk in a roadside pub. It's late enough in the

day for that."
The Editor looked up instinctively. The clock was pointing at a

quarter to five. "Yes, it is," he admitted. "But it needn't be.
And he may have lit out into the Western Pacific all of a sudden -

say in a trading schooner. Though I really don't see in what
capacity. Still . . . "

"Or he may be passing at this very moment under this very window."
"Not he . . . and I wish you would get away from it to where one

can see your face. I hate talking to a man's back. You stand
there like a hermit on a sea-shore growling to yourself. I tell

you what it is, Geoffrey, you don't like mankind."
"I don't make my living by talking about mankind's affairs,"

Renouard defended himself. But he came away obediently and sat
down in the armchair. "How can you be so certain that your man

isn't down there in the street?" he asked. "It's neither more nor
less probable than every single one of your other suppositions."

Placated by Renouard's docility the Editor gazed at him for a
while. "Aha! I'll tell you how. Learn then that we have begun

the campaign. We have telegraphed his description to the police of
every township up and down the land. And what's more we've

ascertained definitely that he hasn't been in this town for the
last three months at least. How much longer he's been away we

can't tell."
"That's very curious."

"It's very simple. Miss Moorsom wrote to him, to the post office
here directly she returned to London after her excursion into the

country to see the old butler. Well - her letter is still lying
there. It has not been called for. Ergo, this town is not his

usual abode. Personally, I never thought it was. But he cannot
fail to turn up some time or other. Our main hope lies just in the

certitude that he must come to town sooner or later. Remember he
doesn't know that the butler is dead, and he will want to inquire

for a letter. Well, he'll find a note from Miss Moorsom."
Renouard, silent, thought that it was likely enough. His profound

distaste for this conversation was betrayed by an air of weariness
darkening his energetic sun-tanned features, and by the augmented

dreaminess of his eyes. The Editor noted it as a further proof of
that immoral detachment from mankind, of that callousness of

sentiment fostered by the unhealthy conditions of solitude -
according to his own favourite theory. Aloud he observed that as

long as a man had not given up correspondence he could not be
looked upon as lost. Fugitive criminals had been tracked in that

way by justice, he reminded his friend; then suddenly changed the
bearing of the subject somewhat by asking if Renouard had heard

from his people lately, and if every member of his large tribe was
well and happy.

"Yes, thanks."
The tone was curt, as if repelling a liberty. Renouard did not

like being asked about his people, for whom he had a profound and
remorseful affection. He had not seen a single human being to whom

he was related, for many years, and he was extremely different from
them all.

On the very morning of his arrival from his island he had gone to a
set of pigeon-holes in Willie Dunster's outer office and had taken

out from a compartment labelled "Malata" a very small accumulation
of envelopes, a few addressed to himself, and one addressed to his

assistant, all to the care of the firm, W. Dunster and Co. As
opportunity offered, the firm used to send them on to Malata either

by a man-of-war schooner going on a cruise, or by some trading
craft proceeding that way. But for the last four months there had

been no opportunity.
"You going to stay here some time?" asked the Editor, after a

longish silence.
Renouard, perfunctorily, did see no reason why he should make a

long stay.
"For health, for your mental health, my boy," rejoined the

newspaper man. "To get used to human faces so that they don't hit
you in the eye so hard when you walk about the streets. To get

friendly with your kind. I suppose that assistant of yours can be
trusted to look after things?"

"There's the half-caste too. The Portuguese. He knows what's to
be done."

"Aha!" The Editor looked sharply at his friend. "What's his
name?"

"Who's name?"
"The assistant's you picked up on the sly behind my back."

Renouard made a slight movement of impatience.
"I met him unexpectedly one evening. I thought he would do as well

as another. He had come from up country and didn't seem happy in a
town. He told me his name was Walter. I did not ask him for

proofs, you know."
"I don't think you get on very well with him."

"Why? What makes you think so."
"I don't know. Something reluctant in your manner when he's in

question."
"Really. My manner! I don't think he's a great subject for

conversation, perhaps. Why not drop him?"
"Of course! You wouldn't confess to a mistake. Not you.

Nevertheless I have my suspicions about it."
Renouard got up to go, but hesitated, looking down at the seated

Editor.
"How funny," he said at last with the utmostseriousness, and was

making for the door, when the voice of his friend stopped him.
"You know what has been said of you? That you couldn't get on with

anybody you couldn't kick. Now, confess - is there any truth in
the soft impeachment?"

"No," said Renouard. "Did you print that in your paper."
"No. I didn't quite believe it. But I will tell you what I

believe. I believe that when your heart is set on some object you
are a man that doesn't count the cost to yourself or others. And