people to shout and dance. "You have him on the island - haven't
you?"

"Oh, yes: I have him there," said Renouard, without looking up.
"Well, then!" The Editor looked helplessly around as if begging

for response of some sort. But the only response that came was
very unexpected. Annoyed at being left in the background, and also

because very little drink made him nasty, the emotional Willie
turned malignant all at once, and in a bibulous tone surprising in

a man able to keep his balance so well -
"Aha! But you haven't got him here - not yet!" he sneered. "No!

You haven't got him yet."
This outrageousexhibition was to the Editor like the lash to a

jaded horse. He positively jumped.
"What of that? What do you mean? We - haven't - got - him - here.

Of course he isn't here! But Geoffrey's schooner is here. She can
be sent at once to fetch him here. No! Stay! There's a better

plan. Why shouldn't you all sail over to Malata, professor? Save
time! I am sure Miss Moorsom would prefer. . ."

With a gallantflourish of his arm he looked for Miss Moorsom. She
had disappeared. He was taken aback somewhat.

"Ah! H'm. Yes. . . . Why not. A pleasure cruise, delightful
ship, delightful season, delightfulerrand, del . . . No! There

are no objections. Geoffrey, I understand, has indulged in a
bungalow three sizes too large for him. He can put you all up. It

will be a pleasure for him. It will be the greatest privilege.
Any man would be proud of being an agent of this happy reunion. I

am proud of the little part I've played. He will consider it the
greatest honour. Geoff, my boy, you had better be stirring to-

morrow bright and early about the preparations for the trip. It
would be criminal to lose a single day."

He was as flushed as Willie, the excitement keeping up the effect
of the festive dinner. For a time Renouard, silent, as if he had

not heard a word of all that babble, did not stir. But when he got
up it was to advance towards the Editor and give him such a hearty

slap on the back that the plump little man reeled in his tracks and
looked quite frightened for a moment.

"You are a heaven-born discoverer and a first-rate manager. . .
He's right. It's the only way. You can't resist the claim of

sentiment, and you must even risk the voyage to Malata. . . "
Renouard's voice sank. "A lonely spot," he added, and fell into

thought under all these eyes converging on him in the sudden
silence. His slow glance passed over all the faces in succession,

remaining arrested on Professor Moorsom, stony eyed, a smouldering
cigar in his fingers, and with his sister standing by his side.

"I shall be infinitely gratified if you consent to come. But, of
course, you will. We shall sail to-morrow evening then. And now

let me leave you to your happiness."
He bowed, very grave, pointed suddenly his finger at Willie who was

swaying about with a sleepy frown. . . . "Look at him. He's
overcome with happiness. You had better put him to bed . . . " and

disappeared while every head on the terrace was turned to Willie
with varied expressions.

Renouard ran through the house. Avoiding the carriage road he fled
down the steep short cut to the shore, where his gig was waiting.

At his loud shout the sleeping Kanakas jumped up. He leaped in.
"Shove off. Give way!" and the gig darted through the water.

"Give way! Give way!" She flew past the wool-clippers sleeping at
their anchors each with the open unwinking eye of the lamp in the

rigging; she flew past the flagship of the Pacific squadron, a
great mass all dark and silent, heavy with the slumbers of five

hundred men, and where the invisible sentries heard his urgent
"Give way! Give way!" in the night. The Kanakas, panting, rose

off the thwarts at every stroke. Nothing could be fast enough for
him! And he ran up the side of his schooner shaking the ladder

noisily with his rush.
On deck he stumbled and stood still.

Wherefore this haste? To what end, since he knew well before he
started that he had a pursuer from whom there was no escape.

As his foot touched the deck his will, his purpose he had been
hurrying to save, died out within. It had been nothing less than

getting the schooner under-way, letting her vanishsilently in the
night from amongst these sleeping ships. And now he was certain he

could not do it. It was impossible! And he reflected that whether
he lived or died such an act would lay him under a dark suspicion

from which he shrank. No, there was nothing to be done.
He went down into the cabin and, before even unbuttoning his

overcoat, took out of the drawer the letter addressed to his
assistant; that letter which he had found in the pigeon-hole

labelled "Malata" in young Dunster's outer office, where it had
been waiting for three months some occasion for being forwarded.

From the moment of dropping it in the drawer he had utterly
forgotten its existence - till now, when the man's name had come

out so clamorously. He glanced at the common envelope, noted the
shaky and laborioushandwriting: H. Walter, Esqre. Undoubtedly

the very last letter the old butler had posted before his illness,
and in answer clearly to one from "Master Arthur" instructing him

to address in the future: "Care of Messrs. W. Dunster and Co."
Renouard made as if to open the envelope, but paused, and, instead,

tore the letter deliberately in two, in four, in eight. With his
hand full of pieces of paper he returned on deck and scattered them

overboard on the dark water, in which they vanished instantly.
He did it slowly, without hesitation or remorse. H. Walter, Esqre,

in Malata. The innocent Arthur - What was his name? The man
sought for by that woman who as she went by seemed to draw all the

passion of the earth to her, without effort, not deigning to
notice, naturally, as other women breathed the air. But Renouard

was no longer jealous of her very existence. Whatever its meaning
it was not for that man he had picked up casually on obscure

impulse, to get rid of the tiresome expostulations of a so-called
friend; a man of whom he really knew nothing - and now a dead man.

In Malata. Oh, yes! He was there secure enough, untroubled in his
grave. In Malata. To bury him was the last service Renouard had

rendered to his assistant before leaving the island on this trip to
town.

Like many men ready enough for arduous enterprises Renouard was
inclined to evade the small complications of existence. This trait

of his character was composed of a little indolence, some disdain,
and a shrinking from contests with certain forms of vulgarity -

like a man who would face a lion and go out of his way to avoid a
toad. His intercourse with the meddlesome journalist was that

merely outwardintimacy without sympathy some young men get drawn
into easily. It had amused him rather to keep that "friend" in the

dark about the fate of his assistant. Renouard had never needed
other company than his own, for there was in him something of the

sensitiveness of a dreamer who is easily jarred. He had said to
himself that the all-knowing one would only preach again about the

evils of solitude and worry his head off in favour of some
forlornly useless protege of his. Also the inquisitiveness of the

Editor had irritated him and had closed his lips in sheer disgust.
And now he contemplated the noose of consequences drawing tight

around him.
It was the memory of that diplomatic reticence which on the terrace

had stiffled his first cry which would have told them all that the
man sought for was not to be met on earth any more. He shrank from

the absurdity of hearing the all-knowing one, and not very sober at
that, turning on him with righteous reproaches -

"You never told me. You gave me to understand that your assistant
was alive, and now you say he's dead. Which is it? Were you lying

then or are you lying now?" No! the thought of such a scene was
not to be borne. He had sat down appalled, thinking: "What shall

I do now?"
His courage had oozed out of him. Speaking the truth meant the

Moorsoms going away at once - while it seemed to him that he would
give the last shred of his rectitude to secure a day more of her

company. He sat on - silent. Slowly, from confused sensations,
from his talk with the professor, the manner of the girl herself,

the intoxicating familiarity of her sudden hand-clasp, there had
come to him a half glimmer of hope. The other man was dead. Then!