Two other considerations made for the permanence and well-being of the club. Few of its members were habitual criminals; they were mostly men who had ruined their lives with one thing, and in other matters had been normally respectable, and even over the worstmen in the club the climate seemed to exercise a curiously quieting and mollifying influence. Secondly, it was very generally realised that Faloo was the last station, the jumping-off place. There was nothing beyond it, and there was no other chance.
Sir John had already stated at the election meeting some of the reasons which bound him to Faloo. It may be added that he thoroughly enjoyed his position. The society in which he lived was small, but it held itself to be the superior society of the island, and it bestowed on him the first place. He had been the great man of his suburb, and he found it to be almost equally satisfactory to be the great man of Faloo. The exploitation of a native king was work which was quite to his taste, and at the same time it was easy work. Shrewd and educated though the King was, he showed himself quite native, and pathetically ignorant at first in matters of business. Sir John had but to say that this or that was common form, or the usual European practice, and the King accepted it at once. But the King learned quickly, and at a later period he had about taken Sir John’s measure, as Sir John himself was aware.
Nor had Sir John any delusions about his fellow-members. His manner was genial; he would gamble and drink (in moderation) with the sinners. But in his heart he despised most of them. They had never had the great idea and the Napoleonic collapse. Their weakness and not their strength had been their ruin. It was not their mind but their body that had run away with them. Sir John had not lived the life of an ascetic, far from it, but his tastes were in favour of a decent reserve and a sufficient moderation. From no man will the slave of the flesh receive more hearty contempt than from the man of the world; and in the difficult task of his reclamation it may be that the sneer of the worldling has sometimes effected more than the tears of the spiritual.
Yet even in his contempt for many of his fellow-members he found some source of gratification. He liked to wonder where on earth they would have been without him, and to feel his sense of responsibility increased. From their depth he could contemplate with the more satisfaction his own eminence.
But there were a few members whom Sir John could regard with more respect. Bassett,for instance, had worked admirably for the club, and had shown something of Sir John’s own talent for organisation. He had now lost his head in a crisis and acted, Sir John considered, like a fool. However, he would get a good scare—Sir John doubted if the King had really intended more than that—and would not be likely to act on impulse again. Then there was Hanson, a quiet man and an ardent chess-player. He had character and ability, and Sir John hoped that he would one day replace the Rev. Cyril Mast on the committee. Mast had a gift for public speaking, and owed his election to it, but Sir John found him quite useless. Probably the man whom Sir John liked most, respected most, trusted most and understood least was Dr Pryce.
The men were as different as possible. Dr Pryce had never shown the slightest interest in the working of the syndicate which financed Smith, although he was a member of it. He had been approached by Sir John on the subject, had put down his money without inquiry, and apparently had never thought about the subject again. In an ordinary way Sir John would have taken this as evidence that theman was a fool, but Pryce’s rather various abilities could not be doubted. The doctor’s contempt for vain assumption sometimes wounded Sir John, who habitually called his own vain assumptions by prettier names. Pryce never pretended to be any better than his fellow-members, nor had he that not uncommon form of perverted vanity which made a man like Mast pretend sometimes to be the greatest of sinners. Sir John had a sufficiency of physical courage for ordinary uses, but Pryce had shown himself on many occasions to be absolutely reckless of his own life. This had occurred not only in such forms of sport as the island afforded, but more frequently in the practice of his science; the island offered drugs that were not in the pharmacopœia, and Pryce, in his enthusiastic study of them, did not stop short at experiments upon himself. It was a great thing, Sir John felt, to have an able and qualified doctor in the club, and with his customary generosity he suggested that a consignment of drugs and apparatus from London for the doctor should be charged to the club account. Pryce replied that his little box of rubbish was paid for already, and changed the subject.
The present crisis in the club’s affairs brought out strongly the changes in Sir John’s character. The cornered rat was showing fight. Sir John contemplated the destruction of theSnowflakeand all aboard her without the faintest feeling of remorse. But Pryce’s careless offer to undertake the work did not satisfy him.
The man who scuttled theSnowflakein mid-ocean would probably be committing suicide; Sir John had no doubt about that. And Pryce was too valuable to lose. Why, Sir John himself might be taken ill at any time. There was a queer form of island fever, as to which he was nervous. The King himself had suffered from it.
And on further consideration Sir John doubted the feasibility of the scheme. By this time Lechworthy probably knew all about the Exiles’ Club, and would see for himself the danger that he represented to them; Bassett’s attempt to murder him would have illuminated the question. Under the circumstances it was unlikely that he would allow any member of the club on board theSnowflake, unless possibly his religious feelings were involved and that member played the partof a repentant and converted sinner. And Sir John knew that Pryce would not do that.
“We’ll think about it, Pryce,” he said finally. “There may be some other way. Something may turn up.”
The King’s house was built bungalow fashion. The rooms were large and lofty, and opened on to a broad verandah; the furniture was scanty but sufficient, and much of it was of native workmanship; only in the bedrooms did the Auckland-imported suites reign supreme. The walls were hung with printed cloths or matting woven in intricate and elaborate designs. In every room banks of flowers gave audacious but splendid colour, and young palms yielded a cool green relief. The garden was not less lovely because many of its natural features had been left unaltered. The little stream that leaped from the crag into the pool twelve feet below had fallen, just there and just so, long before the exiles had come to Faloo, long before the King’s grandfather had died—of alcohol and excessive passions. The white paths curved and twisted through innumerable shrubberies, and lost themselves in deep coolshade. Here and there were broad stretches of tufty unmown grass, and long hedges of hibiscus aflame with scarlet.
Hilda was principally fascinated by all that was native. The extremely fine work of the matting on the walls interested her, the great garden enthralled her. To Tiva and Ioia it was more remarkable that for the first time in their lives they had seen themselves reflected in a full-length mirror; this wonder of civilisation adorned the wardrobe in Hilda’s room. Mr Lechworthy, attended by King Smith, noted with great satisfaction that his room possessed a spring mattress and a tin bath, and that his Bible, his camera and his clothes had arrived safely. Even as he examined them a letter was handed to him which a messenger from the Exiles’ Club had just brought. It was an agonised letter from Bassett, repeating that he had fired by accident, proclaiming the deepest repentance for his past life, expressing his desire to return with Lechworthy to England and there to stand his trial. Lechworthy handed it to King Smith.
“Yes,” said the King, when he had read it. “There is no truth in it at all.”
“None, I am afraid. I note his account ofthe accident varies in one particular from what he said before.”
“There was no accident. I saw the man’s hands.”
“And yet, sir, I ask you once more to give me that man’s life. I cannot stand the idea of a British subject being executed like this—at a few hours’ notice, without trial, guilty in many ways but not of the capital offence. He may not be fit to live but he is not fit to die.”
“Great Britain has nothing to do here; if she had Bassett would not be here.”
“True enough, sir. I know it. I’m not saying that he is not amenable to the law of this island, made and administered by yourself. I am merely, as your guest, asking for a favour. How can I dine with you to-night, smoke my pipe and have my talk with you in peace, if I know this poor wretch is perhaps at that very hour being executed?”
King Smith smiled. “Very well,” he said. “To-night I am going to ask you to save the lives of many of my race—I might even say the race itself. This worthless thing—this Bassett—I will give you. You will take him home and see that he stands his trial?”
“Certainly. On that I insist. He must take his punishment.”
“Write to him that you have saved his life, but that this is conditional on his surrendering to the man who will await him at the gates of the club enclosure some time before midnight. He can bring his personal belongings with him; you see I give him time to get his things together, and to clear up his business as secretary of the club. You may say further that he will not be ill-treated, but that he will be kept in custody until you choose to sail.”
“Thank you, sir, from the bottom of my heart. You have taken a great weight off my mind. I will write to him precisely in those terms. May I have a messenger?”
“There are many men here,” said the King, “and they are here only as your servants, to go where you like and to do what you wish. They understand that.”
The King was deep in thought as he drove back to his business residence on the beach. There he became busy. He remembered to send up to his big house the preserved asparagus which would be wanted for dinner. He examined with care a still that was then working. He saw the overseer from hisplantations inland. He calculated the number of bags of copra that would be ready for his next schooner. He settled a dispute between two natives as to the ownership of a goat. But he gave no orders for a man to be at the gates of the club enclosure shortly before midnight, nor did he give, nor had he given, any orders whatever about Bassett.
In the afternoon, up at the palace, Tiva, Ioia and Hilda explored the garden, and the native girls discovered with joy the wide pool into which the waterfall plashed. They begged Hilda to come for a swim with them. The idea was certainly alluring, but for two reasons Hilda demurred. One was the presence of a patrol of athletic-looking natives with rifles on their shoulders, but this reason was disposed of at once.
“We speak him,” cooed Tiva. “He go pretty dam quick.” And it was so.
The other reason vanished before the resources of the rather fantastic wardrobe which Ioia had brought with her. Two hours later Hilda sat on the verandah with her wet hair loose. She had considered herself fairly expert in the water, but Tiva and Ioia quite eclipsed her; there had seemed to be absolutely nothingwhich they could not do, and they did everything with the most beautiful ease and grace. Hilda rather wished she had been a sculptor. The two water-nymphs now sat at her feet—Tiva in a loose salmon-coloured robe, with a gold bangle on one arm, and Ioia in a similar robe of olive-green surmounted by a barbarous kimono. The bangle and the kimono were Hilda’s gifts. The hurricane had passed as quickly as it had come, and far away before her Hilda could see a sea of marvellous sapphire, foam-streaked, trying to be good again.
Lechworthy spent much of his time that afternoon in his room alone. Then he roamed the garden, camera in hand. He took three snapshots of the armed patrol, and he took them all on the same section of film. But, not yet aware of this little mistake, he was in a placid and even sunny temper when he came on to the verandah for tea. Tiva and Ioia, commanded by Hilda, took tea with them; Ioia tried most things, including tea-leaves, which she ate with moderation but with apparent enjoyment. Then the two sang—a beautiful voice and a correct ear are part of the island girl’s natural inheritance—andHilda and her uncle listened. The song was in the native tongue and for the most part improvised, and perhaps it was just as well that the listeners did not understand it. It was wholly in praise of Hilda, but it praised her with a wealth of detail unusual in European eulogies.
Bassett at the Exiles’ Club received Lechworthy’s reply to his letter shortly after the luncheon hour. Bassett himself was unable to eat luncheon; he was sick with fear. He grew worse every hour. His nerves had broken down. Sir John and Dr Soames Pryce had taken all possible means to safeguard Bassett’s life, for that night at any rate. Every member in whom reliance could be placed was ready to help. From ten to twelve Bassett was to remain in the secretary’s room. There would be a guard outside both window and door. All over the club garden a watch would be kept. To protect him from poison his food and drink were to be tasted by native servants. Preparations were made to deal with any sudden outbreak of fire.
“Can’t you pull yourself together a little?” said Dr Pryce, utterly weary of him.
“Everything you’ve done’s no good,” saidBassett. “I know King Smith, and he does what he says. You can’t stop him.”
“Don’t be a fool, Bassett,” said Sir John. “King Smith is a man and he cannot do miracles. You probably will never be safer in your life than you will be to-night. For that matter, your letter to Lechworthy may get you off altogether.”
Bassett began to weep. He was a humiliating, distressing, repellent spectacle. Dr Soames Pryce ordered brandy to be brought, and forced him to take a stiff dose.
He then became sullen and morose. He said that he wished he had not taken the brandy. Drink was the curse of more than half the men in the club, and he thanked God he had never given way to it. Then he became suspicious of the revolver which had been given him. How was he to know it was all right? Finally he exchanged weapons with Sir John.
The arrival of the letter from Lechworthy did nothing to inspirit him. He read it aloud.
“There you are, you see,” said Sir John. “Sentence commuted. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself for behaving in this way? I told you Lechworthy would get you off.”
“Get me off?” said Bassett. “Do youmean to say you can’t see that this thing’s a trap? A little before midnight I’m to hand myself over to some man at the gates. He takes me away. Oh, yes! Good-bye all! How long afterwards do you suppose I shall be alive?”
“Do you think Lechworthy would trap you in that way?”
“How should I know? He’s got no particular reason to love me, has he? But what’s most likely is that Lechworthy himself has been deceived by King Smith.”
“That won’t do, Bassett. The deceit would be found out next day. King Smith, on the contrary, is most anxious to do all that he can to please Lechworthy and to win him over. What do you think, Pryce?”
“That is so. The letter is quite genuine. Bassett will hand himself over to the man,and—”
“I will not,” screamed Bassett.
“You will,” said Pryce. “You will be made to do it. You see the situation that way, Sweetling, don’t you?”
“Of course I do. Listen to me, Bassett. You have asked the King to spare your life, and offered in return to hand yourself over toLechworthy. He spares your life, and imposes a condition which amounts to what you offered—he is merely making certain that you do hand yourself over to Lechworthy. What do you think will happen when the King finds that he has been fooled and that you have broken your word? My friend, in that case he would get you, even if it were necessary to set all the natives on us to-night, as he could do. He would get you, and I fancy he would adopt barbarous ways of killing you. Therefore, you will be at the gates shortly before midnight—even if you have to be carried there.”
“It comes to this,” said Bassett, “that I’m betrayed by you two.” His shoulders shook, the nails of his yellow hands beat the table convulsively, his thin lips twitched sideways and upwards.
“Bassett,” said Dr Soames Pryce, “try to behave a little more like a man, won’t you? This sort of show isn’t—it’s not very pretty, you know. I give you my word of honour that I believe your life’s safe if you’ll only do what the King tells you. You’ll have to go on board theSnowflake, of course, but you’ll get a chance to give Lechworthy the slip longbefore he gets to England. Then you’ll come back here—you’ve got the money to do it with. If it’s any consolation to you, I may tell you that I shall probably be on the schooner myself—private business of my own—and I’ll see that you get your opportunity.”
“You on board too? How? What business do you mean?”
“I think I said private business of my own.”
“I see. Something I’m not to know about. Another conspiracy against me, eh? Here, give me that brandy.” He nearly filled his tumbler with it, and drank it in quick, excited ugly gulps. He rose to his feet and shook a skinny fist. “You two fools! Do you think I can’t see? Smith has bought you. All the jabber about protecting me was a farce, and Lechworthy’s letter was a put-up thing between you. If I go, I die. If I stay, I die. Pretty thing, ain’t it? You swindled me over the lizards, Pryce, and thought I didn’t know. But, my God, I haven’t got a friend, and I know that! You needn’t look so angry, Sir John. You’ve been bowled out before. You’re used to it. Well, all right. I go to-night. Good-bye all! I’m off to my own room—specialleave from King Smith to pack the shirts I’ll never wear. Good-bye! We’ll meet in hell.”
He flung himself out of the room, across the hall, and up the stairs. Lord Charles Baringstoke was seated in the hall, drinking through a straw a mixture ofcrême-de-mentheand crushed ice. He observed Mr Bassett, and he turned to Mr Sainton—the member who was paying for the drinks.
“See our Mr damned Bassett? Well, you know, I ain’t the champion gold cup at the beauty show myself, but I never did know anyone look quite so blessed ugly as that chap does. Might use him to test iron girders, eh? Mean he might grin at them, and if they’d stand that, they’d stand anything.”
In the room which Bassett had just left Sir John Sweetling controlled his rage with difficulty.
“Look here, Pryce,” said Sir John. “We’ve done the best we can for the man, but this lets me out. If I see him again before he goes I—I can’t answer for what will happen.”
Dr Soames Pryce rolled a cigarette. “The beauty of being a doctor,” he said, “is that you can’t lose your wool with your case—whateverhe, or she, does or says. Bassett, under pressure, has become a case. And, as I don’t think it safe to leave him alone, I’ll hop upstairs after him. See you presently.”
On the stairs Dr Pryce heard the report of a revolver. He arrived just ten seconds too late.
The King and Mr Lechworthy dined alone that night. Hilda discovered, rather suddenly, that she was absolutely worn out with the long day. Tiva and Ioia, watching her, spoke one or two sentences together in the native tongue. Then Tiva explained to Hilda in English that she and Ioia had spread their sleeping-mats on the verandah just against Hilda’s window. If Hilda wanted them at any time in the night she had only to go to the window and speak, and they would be with her at once. Hilda thanked them, but she was sure she would not need them. She left with her uncle her apologies to the King.
Mr Lechworthy’s dress was just precisely what he would have worn in the evening in London. The King wore a tropical evening suit of white drill; he had ridden up from the office and changed his clothes at the palace.The two men dined early—a brief and tasteful dinner composed principally of native dishes. And then Lechworthy filled his pipe, and they took their coffee on the verandah, and talked long and seriously.
It was of the death of the native races that the King spoke—and of his own ambition, that Faloo should become a refuge for them from the deadly effects of civilisation, that in the future no white man should ever be allowed to set foot there. Let Great Britain undertake just that work of protection and close the island definitely to all but the natives. Let her say that neither British nor French nor German, nor any other white man, might land there. King Smith said that he knew little of the conditions that might be demanded, but if Great Britain wished him to renounce his title of King he would resign it willingly; if tribute were wanted, he would see that it was paid punctually. All he asked was Great Britain’s guarantee that in Faloo the island people should be left absolutely to themselves, to live their own life in the old way, and so to escape the racial destruction that was coming swiftly upon them.
He laid before Lechworthy the pictorialevidence of travellers and the unimpassioned figures of the statistics. Everywhere in the islands, as civilisation advanced, the native race died out. The King made no attack upon civilisation, wasted no time in idle epigrams. Civilisation might have all the merits and all the advantages, but it had been proved in cold history that the island races could not accept it. In childish and rather pathetic good-will they had tried to accept it, and in consequence many had died out and the rest were dying.
It was not merely a question of drink. It was true, of course, that alcohol, which harmed the habituated European, quickly demoralised and killed the unhabituated islanders. But there was hardly a part of civilisation that did not help to kill him. Civilisation called him from the open air into houses where he was poisoned and stifled. It clothed his partial nakedness with European stuffs and pneumonia followed. It gave him things to learn for which his mind was unfit, and he became obtuse and devitalised. Nature had spared him and put him in places where food and such shelter as he needed might be had free or for a minimum of labour; civilisation put a stress upon him and paid him in luxuries that werebad for him. Tinned meat and multiplication tables, gin and geography, feather beds and tight boots, worry and hypocrisy, everything worked together for bad for the islander. Civilisation increased his needs and sapped his powers. He went down, down inevitably, in his struggle with it.
“Excuse me, sir,” said Lechworthy. “What you say is true; I have heard something of this before, though far less than you have told me. But your own case hardly supports your argument.”
“I know it. I admit that I am quite exceptional. Heredity may have something to do with it. There is a legend of white blood in my family, a long way back. It may be so or it may not—such inter-marriages do not generally have a good result. But my grandfather died of drink, and my father was a very great friend of the missionaries. So perhaps I was born—what is the word?—yes, perhaps I was born immune. There are no missionaries here now, except the two French priests, and they do nothing; you see, they have grown old and very, very fat.”
“Your father then—he was a convert?”
“The missionaries thought so, and he didwhat they liked; you see, he was a good friend to them, and they taught him. My father could read English, and he spoke it too, but not very correctly. He was a kind man, but he was not very much converted, I think. He began to teach me when I was quite young, and always I wanted to learn more. It was he who showed me what the white man is doing in these islands. So it is very many years since I first thought that Faloo is not a great island, and had been left over, and perhaps I might in time secure it so that it should be the last home of my people, lest they all died. And I have gone on thinking it always; it is for that that I have done good and also bad things.”
“But you speak English remarkably, sir. You did not learn it from your father alone.”
“Oh, no. For nearly ten years the Exiles’ Club has been here, and I have been the friend of the white men just as my father in his time was the friend of the missionaries. The men of the Exiles’ Club came to me, and there was always whisky and cigars and whatever they wanted. So they would sit and talk with me. That Mr Cyril Mast came very often. Most days he is very bad and also drunken. Buthe is beautifully educated, and he told me much about England. Sometimes Sir John Sweetling, who started the club, would talk about your financial world, though it was mostly on our joint business he came to see me. This Bassett also talked. Even Lord CharlesBaringstoke—”
“What? Is that young scamp here?”
“Yes, and even from him I have learned something. But the best man of all of them is Dr Soames Pryce. He is very able and he is different from the others. When I was ill with an island fever he came to see me and he gave me medicines, and very soon I was well again. But when I would have paid him he told me to go to the devil. I think it was because he has sometimes drunk whisky with me, but not so often as I should like, for I think he knows very much, and he is the only one whose word I altogether believe.”
So far Mr Lechworthy had expressed no opinion; he was rather miserly with expression until he had well weighed his subject. But he had already formed his opinions. Firstly, the King was simple and sincere. He spoke plainly and without hypocrisy. He had not shirked the fact that his father was notreally converted to Christianity, or that he himself had been a boon companion of these blackguards at the Exiles’ Club. He had never emphasised the point that he wanted nothing for himself and everything for his people; he had treated this attitude as a matter of course, and, had not dwelt upon it. Secondly, the project of Faloo for the people of Faloo, with their independence supported by Great Britain, appealed to him greatly. We had done enough grabbing for unworthy ends. We had become a byword in that respect. It was a great thing to save a race; it was an idea which might arouse an enthusiasm, and that in its turn might become useful in practical politics. The missionary question presented to his mind the only difficulty at present. However, he would hear the whole story.
The next chapter of that story dealt with Smith’s start as a trader. It went back to the time of Sir John Sweetling’s arrival at Faloo; two other white men had followed him there within the year. He narrated his dealings with Sir John and with the syndicate which was subsequently formed. The financial control of the business was practically shifted to a distant island, where there was a bank witha cast-iron method and a Commissioner who could enforce agreements. The King, young and inexperienced, had signed the instructions to the bank and had signed the iniquitous agreements. He had put the noose on his own neck.
But one hold on his partners he retained, or the noose would have been drawn tight long before. They lived at Faloo, and there was probably no other part of the globe where they could have lived with the same safety and comfort. They were in consequence largely dependent on the King of Faloo; he alone could control the natives. Consequently, concessions were made to him on points where he had insisted. The dangerous but remunerative contraband trade had been a case in point; he had refused to allow any native of Faloo to buy liquor; he had even safeguarded the native servants employed at the Exiles’ Club. After one week—in which the King had left the club without any native servants at all—its members learned wisdom.
In the actual conduct of the business he had not had to complain of much interference. He was free to settle all the details of it and to do all the work of it. It was called hisbusiness—not their business. But his partners’ veto came in from time to time, and gradually he had realised that he was held back. Trade was not to be extended. The reef was not to be opened up. He was never to be rich enough to buy out his own partners and to be independent of them. Here and there he could tempt one of the investors by an appeal to his cupidity—Bassett had been such a man. But the more important interest, represented by Sir John, had stuck always to the same policy—to keep a control over King Smith, and to prevent Faloo from developing a trade of sufficient importance to attract outside attention. For instance, the amount of copra that might be exported was not regulated by what could be produced and sold, but by a decision of the King’s partners; and they had no wish to bring the great soap-making firms down on Faloo.
And then the idea had come to him that he might be able to split up the white men, create differences among them, and perhaps form a party of his own. It was with this view that he had persuaded some of them to support his candidature for membership of the Exiles’ Club, and had lent money to some of the remittance men and had refused it to others. “And perhaps I might have done something with that, but in the meanwhile, without intending it, the white men have split up my own people. There is now a certain number of natives who are acting without any order from me, and even against my order. They have no hostility towards me, and they act secretly because they are all afraid of me. Their aim is to kill all the white men on the island. They killed one last night—I buried him early this morning. I will tell you how that has come about.” And the King narrated, with more detail than need be given here, the trouble about the native women.
“I have only kept my people in hand up to this point by promising them that a day should come when not one white man would be left on the island if only they would be patient. If they used violence, then my plans would be spoiled—they would be punished—the men-of-war would come—the whole island would fall into the white man’s hands. And, Mr Lechworthy, even if you had not come I should have kept my word, for when a man wants only one thing, and wants it very badly, he must get it in the end. But I no longer have the wholeof my people in hand. There must be some—I think they are few—who have not enough patience. I cannot blame them in my heart, although as soon as I find them I shall kill them. I cannot, I say, blame them in my heart, for there are wrongs which drive a man mad, and these are just the wrongs of which the white men have been guilty. That then is the position here—a section of my people is in secret rebellion against me, and it is to the Exiles’ Club that I owe this. And look—I have but to give one brief order, and in an hour the club would be burned to the ground and every white man in it would be murdered. There are times when I have been tempted. But I always knew that it was not so that I should make the Faloo of my dreams—not in that way that I should gain the friendship and the help—the indispensable help—of Great Britain.”
He paused a moment, drank from the long glass before him, and lighted another cigarette.
“There is the story, Mr Lechworthy. I have worked for a good thing, but it is as I said: I have used a bad implement and it has hurt my hand, and perhaps I must burn the wound with a little gunpowder before it willbe whole again. You can save us all, if you will. You are a politician and a friend of politicians of high Cabinet rank. You own a newspaper. You can arouse public feeling, and you can direct it. You know how these things are managed. Perhaps to-morrow you will decide. To-night I cannot remain much longer for I have to fetch this man Bassett—if he is still there.”
“If he is still there?”
“Yes. He is a suspicious man and his nerves are very feeble. He may have distrusted your letter. He may have run away. He may have—anything may have happened.”
“I see. Well, I have done what I could. There is one little point which I would mention to-night. These agreements with your partners are so unjust, and contain such evidence of bad faith, that I think I could get them set aside. But all that would take time, and there is a quicker way. The terms on which you can buy them out are unfair and extravagant, but even so the amount of capital involved is—well—it is not to me a very large sum. I offer to buy them out and to become your one partner in their place. I wish to do this.”
“I accept it with gratitude,” said the King, “provided that you understand this: if ever Faloo is closed, except to its own people, the trade will stop absolutely. It would then be unnecessary and a source of danger. The island itself provides all that a native wants.”
“Very well,” said Lechworthy, “I have no objection. My capital would then be returned to me. I am anxious to make it possible for you to drop—the implement that has hurt your hand. And as for the rest, I can tell you my position in a few words. I am ready to help you by all the means in my power; this idea of the refuge for the race, the island where it may recuperate itself, appeals to me immensely, and I think I can make some political use of it too. But, sir, I have my conscience. I may shut the door against the white man and his dangerous civilisation, but I dare not shut it against the gospel of Christ. There, we will speak of this to-morrow.”
“I shall be here early in the morning. Good-night, Mr Lechworthy.”
At five minutes to twelve the King reined in his horse at the gates of the club compound. Dr Soames Pryce stood there alone. It wastoo dark to see the expression of his face, but his voice sounded sardonic.
“You have come for your prisoner, King Smith?”
“I have.”
“He has escaped you. He shot himself this afternoon. You found the man’s breaking-point all right. Do you want evidence of his death?”
“I take your word for it. You know, I suppose, that he had his chance of life. My guest, Mr Lechworthy, wrote aletter—”
“Yes, I know. And the only man who disbelieved in the letter was Bassett. He disbelieved in everybody and everything. Extreme fear had made him insane. By the way, it was I who stopped your election to this club, and now I want you to do me a kindness. Damned awkward, isn’t it?”
The King smiled. “That is not the only association you have had with me. What is it you want?”
“I remember no other association. Oh, yes, I gave you a few pills once, didn’t I? Well, I can tell you what I want anyhow. The fact is that this place is becoming a bit too hot for my simple tastes, and I want to clearout. Duncombe’s missing; we’ve had men out all day looking for him and he can’t be found.”
“I had nothing to do with that.”
“Very likely. I don’t accuse you. Still, it happened. Bassett was sentenced and reprieved, and ended by shooting himself. Cyril Mast is boozing himself mad; we are trying to sober him down enough to read the service over Bassett. Every night we find natives, who’ve got no business here, skulking about this place. It’s possible that some of them will hurt themselves. The pot’ll boil over presently, and there will be general hell. I’m a quiet man, and I’d sooner be away. I wish you’d put in a word for me to this Mr Lechworthy. If he had room for Bassett he’s got room for me. I’ll pay my passage, or work it as doctor or anything else, whichever he likes. You might put in a word for me.”
“But why bother Lechworthy? One of our own boats will be going out again in a few days’ time.”
“Thank you. If I wanted to be poisoned with the stink of copra, and eaten alive with cockroaches, I’d go by it. TheSnowflake’sa sound clean boat, and I prefer it. The insidewill drop out of your schooner one of these days. She’s all right for trade, but she’s slow, rotten and nasty.”
“Very well,” said the King. “I’ll speak to him about it. But of course the decision will rest with him.”
“Of course. Thanks very much.”
They said good-night and parted, the King riding on to the office on the beach, and Dr Pryce returning to Sir John in the club.
“How goes it?” asked Pryce.
“Mast is sober now, but he’s pretty shaky. It seems that his bit of a row with Bassett is disturbing him, and he’s been weeping. I say, Pryce, our men are simply going to pap.”
“Everything else ready for the burial?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll give Mast one stiff peg to steady him, and we’ll start away. By the way, it was as I thought, it was the King himself who came to the gate.”
“Then you spoke about theSnowflake?”
“Of course. He’ll see Lechworthy about it.”
“Do you think he smells a rat?”
“There are some men who smell rats and then shout about it, and they don’t generallymake fortunes as rat-catchers. Smith’s not that sort.”
“You mean?”
“I mean that I don’t know whether he suspects or not. I should imagine that he’s watching out, and so am I, which makes it quite interesting. Now I’ll go and see if I can straighten Mast’s backbone a bit.”
The King certainly had not accepted Pryce’s statement that he was a quiet man and wished to run away from fear of a native uprising; but Pryce might have had other reasons of which he did not wish to speak, and the real reason did not occur to the King at all. But he was suspicious and on his guard. He had very much to think of and many questions to ask himself. What line would Sir John take when he found that he and the other partners were to be bought out? Would Lechworthy be obstinate on the question of white missionaries for Faloo? If this were arranged, would Lechworthy be able to bring the scheme to a successful issue? Who was it that had murdered Duncombe?
To this last question the King had a simple means of finding the answer. Knowing the native mind as he did, he knew that themurderer would be driven to make some demonstration of triumph and satisfied revenge. He would do it secretly, probably very late at night, but he would find himself driven to do it. Stealthily and on foot the King went from one native house to another, wherever he suspected the criminal might possibly be.
It was some hours later that he stood outside a little shanty and listened to the man who was singing within. The singer was drunk—drunk on methylated spirits stolen from the stores of the Exiles’ Club. The King entered.
It was just at this time that away at the palace Hilda Auriol managed to raise herself a little in bed. “Tiva! Ioia!” she called and fell back again. In an instant the two girls entered through the windows from the verandah.
“I—I think I am very ill,” moaned Hilda.
Bassett was buried by lantern-light a little after one in the morning in a far corner of the club grounds. His was the fourth grave there, and not one of the four men had died in his bed. The Rev. Cyril Mast read the service sonorously, with dignity and self-control, for Soames Pryce had seen to him, and Soames Pryce was a clever doctor. The roughly-made coffin—a wooden framework with thick mats stretched over it—was borne by members of the club, and it was they who had dug the grave and afterwards filled it in. No native had ever been allowed to have anything to do with the interment of a white man.
Most of the members were present at the funeral, but not all. Lord Charles Baringstoke was not there, but he expressed his regrets afterwards, leaning against the wall in the card-room with a cigarette in one side of his loose mouth.
“I’d always meant to see the beggar planted,but, you see, I didn’t know when the thing was going to start. So we’d one rubber to fill in time. Then, just when the lights went past the window, we were game and twenty-eight, and it looked like our only being five minutes late anyhow; but I got my spades doubled and the little slam up against me, and then they made an odd trick in hearts, and we were finally bust on a dam-silly no-trumper of my partner’s. Still, I’m sorry you know, though it couldn’t be helped. Everybody going to bed? One more little drink—what?”
Already on the screen in the hall there was a notice calling an emergency meeting of the members in the afternoon for the election of an honorary secretary who would also be a member of the committee. Neither Pryce nor Mast had cared to undertake the secretarial work.
Standing by the screen, Sir John Sweetling, in conversation with some of the more responsible members of the club, pronounced the panegyric upon Bassett. “He never, or very rarely, drank; he liked business, and he kept the books well.” Sir John paused a moment in thought, and added, “And he wrote an excellent hand.”
“And paid nodings for it,” said round-eyed Mr Mandelbaum. “But zen it put him in ze know.”
It was long before Sir John could get any sleep that night. His mind was still active and anxious. The old questions still bothered him. What compact, if any, had been made between King Smith and Lechworthy? Was it just possible that the King had not given the Exiles’ Club away? If he had, which seemed almost certain, would Pryce be able to carry out what he had undertaken? Would Pryce be able to save himself when theSnowflakewas scuttled or burned? And then there were many worries in connection with the club. Who could be found to take Bassett’s place? What could be done about Cyril Mast, whose folly was the cause of all that had happened? Some advantage might be taken of his repentance.
It seemed to Sir John that he had only been asleep for a few minutes when he was awakened by a loud knock at his door. It was just daylight. Sir John was rather startled. He glanced at his revolver on the table by his bedside and shouted “Come in.”
“Sorry to disturb you,” said Dr Pryce, ashe entered. He was dressed, and he sat down and laced his boots as he talked. “But I’ve got to be off. A letter was brought to me ten minutes ago from Lechworthy. His niece is ill—seriously ill, I should say, and he wants me at once. He seems to have sent the letter through the King—at any rate Smith’s waiting for me in a buggy outside.”
Sir John was wide awake and out of bed by now. He thrust his feet into a pair of soft red leather slippers. He was quite a good figure of a man, but his tendency to corpulence was more noticeable in his yellow silk pyjamas, and one gets untidy at night. “But this is a new move, Pryce,” he said. “This secures your passage on theSnowflake.” He peered into the looking-glass and used two hairbrushes quickly. Then he suddenly wheeled round, with the brushes still in his hands. “By God! it settles everything. You needn’t go near theSnowflake. Don’t you see?”
“Thought you’d come to it. You mean that I poison the girl and her uncle. Smith has to come back to us because he has no one else. The skipper and crew will know nothing, and will be told a tale. That’s it, eh?”
“Of course, though it needn’t be put quitelike that. The best of doctors cannot save every patient. Lechworthy would be distracted, and a sleeping-draught might be necessary—and a mistake might occur. That’s the way I’m going to put it—to Smith, to the men here, to everybody. You can trust me.”
“Absolutely. But you’re in too much of a hurry. I’m not going to do it.”
“Why not? Because you’re called in as a doctor? Man, our lives are at stake. Let’s be frank. I won’t face a trial and penal servitude to follow. Would you? You were ready to do much worse than this. It isn’t a timefor—”
“I know,” said the doctor. He had finished with his boots now, and stood upright. “It’s not exactly a point of professional etiquette. The thing simply isn’t sport. It’s too easy and too dirty.”
“But this isn’t reasonable. You’re willing to sink theSnowflakeand—and all that’s implied in that.”
“Willing to try. The scuttling of a schooner is not too easy. Teetotal millionaires can afford luxuries, and you may bet there’s a good sober skipper and a picked crew on board theSnowflake. They will be awake.If I were caught cutting a pipe, or fooling with the sea-cocks, or doing something surgical to the boats, I think—well, objections would be raised. Also, the problem of the one survivor takes some thinking out. It’s likely there would be too many survivors or none at all. It’s blackguardly enough, but still there is an element of risk about it. As for the other thing, well, to cut it short, I won’t do it.”
“Then I must leave it,” said Sir John. “I think you’re missing a chance, but that can’t be helped. When do you return?”
“Can’t say. To-night perhaps, if the patient doesn’t need me. Well, good-bye, Sweetling. Get ’em to elect Hanson secretary if you can. If I can’t come I’ll write.”
Sir John crept back again into bed. He did not mean to break with Pryce, and he had shown less anger than he felt. He was not really surprised at Pryce’s prompt and definite refusal. He had dealt with many bad men—some worse than the doctor—and he was a bad man himself; and he had come constantly on the bad thing that the bad man would not do. He had found the distorted sense of honour in men who had done some dishonourable things. He had found generosity inthieves and tender-heartedness in a murderer. Even as the good sometimes fall, so do the bad sometimes rise.
And, after all, the summons of Dr Pryce to the palace to attend Lechworthy’s niece was all to the good. He would be in the position of a spy in the enemy’s camp. Probably, by the evening, he would return with news of the relations of Lechworthy and the King. Uncertainties would be cleared up, and it would be easier to see what to do. And yet another point occurred to Sir John. Suppose that Pryce saved the life of Lechworthy’s niece, Lechworthy’s gratitude would be unbounded, and he would be ready to do anything to show it. Pryce would refuse money, but he might ask Lechworthy to leave the Exiles’ Club alone, to refrain from policeman’s work, to do nothing which would give the secret away. Thus thinking, Sir John fell asleep again.
He rose late, breakfasted in his room, and then sought out the Rev. Cyril Mast.
“I want you,” said Sir John. “Pryce has been called away, and we are the only two on the committee for the moment. Come to the secretary’s room.”
“Very well,” said Mast, dejectedly, and followed him.
The two sat at the table facing one another. Mast’s red-rimmed eyes fell on the little glass of small shot with which Bassett had been wont to clean his pens. He could recall the nervous jabbing movement of Bassett’s hand as he did it. Bassett’s three cork penholders lay in a tray before him.
“You can say what you like,” said Mast. “Whatever you say I deserve it. I ought never to have brought the Lechworthys here. I couldn’t foresee that Bassett would come out and Lechworthy would recognise him. It was all wrong, though.”
“Why did you do it?”
“Do you never feel sometimes that you’d like to talk to a few decent people who didn’t know your history? I’ve been nearly mad. And—well, it was you who began it.”
“Indeed? And what had I got to do with it?”
“You didn’t mean it, and you’ll probably laugh at it. It was about a fortnight ago, and we’d just finished a committee meeting after dinner. There were Pryce, Bassett, you and I sitting out on the verandah. Bassett keptjigging about in a wicker chair that squeaked horribly, and you said you’d give us some better music than that, you remember?”
“Yes, I remember. What about it?”
“You pulled out that swagger presentation watch of yours—the one that plays the tunes—and set it going. The night was quite still, and I sat listening to the tinky-tink of ‘Home, sweet Home.’ That brought back Histon Boys to my mind—village where I was, you know. Old chaps hobbling out of church, bad with rheumatism; they used to touch their hats to me then. They didn’t know. I was welcome anywhere in the village. I dined with the farmers and played tennis with their pretty daughters. People walked in from the next village, three miles away, to hear me preach on Sunday evenings. Yes, it won’t seem much to you, but I’ve lost it all, and I can never have it again or anything like it. Why, if I showed myself in Histon Boys now, they’d set their dogs on me. That infernal tune made me think, and thinking drove me mad.”
“I’m not concerned with your sins, Mr Mast. Being a parson you repent ’em, and being what you are, you repeat ’em. Youspend your time in alternate sobbing and soaking. But I’m concerned with your follies, because they’re dangerous. You showed yourself a dangerous fool in the matter of the native women. You’ve showed yourself still more dangerous in bringing Lechworthy here. Lechworthy’s hand-in-glove with the King. Lechworthy may sail for home with a list of our names in his pocket-book.”
“I realise all that,” said Mast. “If there’s anything I can do about Lechworthy I’ll do it. I don’t care what it is.”
“Remember you’ve said that. I may take you at your word later. At present that matter is in the hands of a stronger man than you are. Lechworthy’s niece is ill, and Dr Pryce is attending her. Something may be worked that way.”
“I don’t see how.”
“Don’t you? Well, there are more ways than one of paying the doctor who saves the life of somebody to whom you’re devoted. But don’t bother about that yet. At present that’s in Dr Pryce’s hands and mine. You’ve made an unlimited offer, and I think you were right to make it—you’ve risked the skins of every man in the club, and you ought to beready to risk your own skin to save them. Probably it won’t come to that, but if it does I’ll tell you. Meanwhile there’s another thing to settle. Who’s to be secretary?”
“Mandelbaum says he would take it if a small salary were attached. He has asked me to propose that.”
“We can’t pay a salary and I wouldn’t take Mandelbaum if he paid to come in. He must find somebody else to propose that nonsense. You can tell him I said so if you like. Mandelbaum doesn’t happen to be one of the things I’m afraid of just now. The fact is, Mast—and you’re a good deal responsible for it—we are getting too disorganised and demoralised here. I don’t want to turn the place into a Sunday-school, but I will have some decency and order. And I want a strong committee, because in consequence of this Lechworthy incident it may be necessary for the whole club to take action as the committee directs. Pryce is all right, but you admit your own weakness. You were elected, because you had the gift of the gab, and you can make it useful to us. I want you to propose Hanson. Bassett was never a strong man, and that fat German who flatters himself that he’s wortha salary is no better. Hanson is the man. He’s steady and he knows things.”
“I’ll do my best for him,” said Mast. “I must not canvass, of course.”
“It’s no good; it would work the other way. But if you get a chance between now and luncheon of getting your knife into Mandelbaum’s election, don’t miss it.”
“I see,” said Mast. He was glad that he was to make a speech; it was a thing that he did well.
“And don’t forget—you owe a debt to the club, and you’ve told me that you’re ready to pay when I call on you.”
Sir John was satisfied with this interview. The Rev. Cyril Mast would be a second string to Sir John’s bow. The second string was not of the strongest, and probably would not be wanted. But if, for example, some further divergence occurred between the views of Sir John and those of Dr Pryce, Sir John thought he might find that second string useful.
The meeting that afternoon was brief and without excitement. Mast proposed Hanson in a short but admirable speech. Mast, with the appearance of a dissipated boy, had on public occasions the elegant and sonorousdelivery of a comfortable archdeacon. His prepared speeches had point and a dry wit that was quite absent from his ordinary conversation. Mandelbaum withdrew, in a few pathetic words that caused much amusement, and Hanson was elected unanimously.
The new secretary was a quiet and reserved man of middle age. Eight years before he had been a prosperous Lancashire manufacturer. Then for a week he had gone mad; and as his madness did not happen to be of a certifiable kind, he was now paying for it with the rest of his life in exile. He was the best chess-player in the club and perhaps the best all-round shot; with the revolver Dr Soames Pryce was in a class by himself. Hanson spent four hours every day over chess. He used work where the Rev. Cyril Mast used whisky, and he had not let himself slip down even in a climate where all occupations are a burden. If you talked to him, he was pleasant enough, and you found him rather exceptionally well-informed; but you had to begin the talking. He was melancholy by nature, but he had realised it and did his best to keep his melancholy to himself. The work of the secretaryship was a godsend to him.
Sir John had never before sought the society of the Rev. Cyril Mast, but now he meant to keep in touch with him. It was not only because, if it should happen that there was a violent and desperate thing to be done, he felt that he could make Mast do it. Sir John appreciated keenly the trappings of civilisation; he wished things to be done decently and in order. He could not make the Exiles’ Club in Faloo quite like the London clubs of which he had ceasedipso factoto be a member, but he worked in that direction. He respected—almost in excess of its merits—the Baringstoke family, but when Lord Charles Baringstoke entered the public rooms of the club in pyjamas and a dressing-gown, Sir John resented it. Public opinion in Faloo was not strong enough to stop drunkenness, but there were limits, and the limits had of late too frequently been exceeded. There had been noise and brawling, and worse. Mast had been a bad offender; his conversation with some of the members was one stream of witless and senseless filth, and in his hours of intoxication he had been beyond measure bestial and disgusting. Yet it had been said that Mast had his moments, and he had shown some ability, though withlittle judgment to direct it. Sir John began to think that association might effect something, for Mast like most weak men took his colour largely from his company. He did not dream of reforming Mast, for the man was congenitally vicious; but he thought he might effect a temporary break in the dreary see-saw of swinishness and sentimentalism that made up the man’s life, and this would help to stop the growing disorder in the club.
So he complimented Mast on his speech, and Mast, like any spaniel, was delighted with a little attention from the man who had chastised him.
“I’ve something else I want you to do. I’m sending a couple of servants to pack up all Bassett’s effects. You might superintend that—see that there’s no pilfering and that everything is properly sealed up. And, by the way, I’ve ordered a grilled chicken at nine to-night, and reserved our last bottle of Chambertin. I should be glad if you’d join me. I daresay Pryce will come in later.”
Mast accepted these proposals with alacrity. He was conscious of some faint glow of self-respect—orof vanity, which so often serves the same purpose.
Late in the afternoon Sir John received a note from Dr Pryce, brought by a messenger. It contained little more than a request that his clothes might be sent him, and the statement that he would write on the morrow if he could find time.
Over the grilled chicken that night Sir John was rather absent-minded. He did not seem in the least inclined to say anything further about Mast’s excellent speech, although he had the opportunity.
“And when do you expect Dr Pryce?” Mast asked.
“Not to-night after all. I’ve heard from him, of course. The poor girl’s really ill. But still we must hope for the best. Pryce has wonderful skill and experience. Shall we—er—join them in the card-room?”
In one corner of the card-room Hanson, the new secretary, was giving Lord Charles Baringstoke a game of chess. There was nobody in the club whose play gave Hanson more trouble. Hanson played like a scholar; his opponent played like a demoniac with occasional flashes of inspiration and was generally, but not invariably, beaten. To-night, for instance, he looked up triumphantly from the board.
“Well, old cockie?”
“Yes,” said Hanson, “that is so. I’d given you credit for something better, and when you unmasked, my position was hopeless. Serves me right. Quite interesting though.”
“Tell you what. My game’s improving?”
“No, Charles,” said Hanson, “it’s clever but unprincipled, and always will be. Still, it’s always suggestive. Now let me see if I can’t wake up a little.”
“I say,” said Sir John bitterly from the card-table where he was playing a difficult hand, “is chess a game that requires so much conversation?”
“Sorry,” said Hanson.
“We’ve made papa quite cross,” said Lord Charles Baringstoke as he arranged the pieces. He was not allowed to win again that night.
Mast played very sober bridge with very bad luck. He could not hold a card.
“I’m a perfect Jonah to-night,” he said after his third rubber, as he paid his loss.
“Yes,” said Sir John, genially, as he gathered the money, “we shall have to throwyou overboard. Come along now. We were very late last night. Bed’s not a bad idea.”
The Rev. Cyril Mast followed him meekly.
The King drove furiously, but Dr Pryce was not a nervous man. When they arrived at the King’s house, Lechworthy was pacing the verandah anxiously, awaiting them. Dr Pryce was presented to him, but very little was said, for the doctor wished to see his patient at once, and went off to her room.
Nearly an hour had passed before he reappeared on the verandah.
“Well, doctor,” said Mr Lechworthy, eagerly. “I have been much alarmed—needlessly, I hope. What is the matter with my niece?”
“I don’t know the name of it,” said Dr Pryce. “I’ve seen it several times here—never in Europe.”
“She is seriously ill?”
“Undoubtedly. But Miss Auriol has a fine constitution, and if we can fight through the next thirty-six hours, recovery is likely to be very rapid. Unfortunately, those two native girls, with the best intentions, have been playing about with native remedies.”
“And they are useless?”
“They are very much worse than that. However, it won’t happen again, and now that I have talked to them, Tiva and Ioia may be quite handy.” At the moment Tiva and Ioia were frightened out of their lives, weeping tears of bitterest penitence, and wishing they were dead.
“Yes,” said Lechworthy, “you will be able to use them as nurses.”
“A nurse who can’t take a temperature isn’t much use to me at present. I shall be nurse and doctor too. But they can do little things under my direction—fetch and carry and so on—and they’re willing enough.”
“I feel a terrible responsibility in having brought Miss Auriol here. I had hoped, doctor, that you would be able to give me better news.”
“Perhaps, that will come to-morrow. Meanwhile, there are things I must see to. Is Smith still here?”
For the moment Lechworthy did not understand that it was of the King that Pryce spoke in this unceremonious way. “The King?” he said. “Yes, he wished to see you.”
“Thanks. I’ll go and find him.” He paused a moment. There was something inthe plucky, self-controlled wretchedness of the old man that appealed to him. “There is no immediate danger,” he said. “If there were, I would tell you. I am going to remain here, and in one point I want to prepare you. Miss Auriol is ill now, but she will be worse this evening. I expect a further rise in temperature, and there may be delirium, and in consequence some noise. But you must not let that upset you too much—it’s foreseen and I shall be ready to deal with it. If she gets a good sleep afterwards, I shall be quite satisfied.”
“Thank you very much for telling me. Indeed—I wish I could thank you better for all you’re doing for us. It is good of you to have come and to devote so much time to us. I feel it—far more than I can express at present.”
“My time here is of little value. You understand then—I cannot say that Miss Auriol is out of danger, but there’s room for hope. I’ll do my best, Mr Lechworthy. Go and see her for a few minutes now, if you like. After that, I would rather she were left alone, unless she asks specially for you and begins worrying.”
Mr Lechworthy was almost aggressivelycheerful during the few minutes that he spent with his niece. Her room was pleasantly cool, and so darkened that he could only just make out the pale face and the mass of hair on the pillow. Mr Lechworthy expressed the opinion that Pryce seemed to be an able doctor and would put her right in no time.
“And how do you get on with him, my dear?”
“I think,” said Hilda, faintly, “that he is the very gentlest man I ever met.”
“Good,” said Mr Lechworthy. “You like him then. That’s right.”
Hilda’s estimate of Dr Pryce would probably have excited some mirth among his friends at the Exiles’ Club. Lechworthy, as he resumed his notes on South Sea Missions, found himself puzzled by Dr Pryce. Somehow or other Lechworthy had expected to see a furtive, very polite, shaky little man, one who would try to ingratiate himself—something like Mast or Bassett. He found that he could not fit Dr Pryce into any reasonable idea of the fugitive from justice.
Meanwhile Pryce had found the King asleep in a long chair in the garden. The King had spent less than one hour in bed, and at suchtimes he slept when he got the chance. But he was awake and alert almost as soon as he heard Pryce’s voice.
“And what is this illness?” he asked immediately.
“The same that you had—and your boss man on the plantations.”
“Good,” said the King. “Then you must cure her.”
“You, like your plantation boss, are a man and a native; Miss Auriol is a woman and a European. I got on to your case at once; here, before I arrived, Miss Auriol had been made to swallow a mess of boiled leaves—of a kind that might have poisoned a woman in good health. She has the disease in a worse form than you had it. I could give you horse-medicine; I should kill Miss Auriol if I gave the same doses to her. Well, I don’t expect you to understand. But you can understand this—on the whole, the probability is that Miss Auriol will die.”
“You stop here?”
“Of course.”
“My servants, my house, myself—all are at your disposal. I am no more King here: here the doctor is King. All that you say willbe done. But Miss Auriol must not die. I have given my word that you can save her and that you will save her.”
“Then you’re a fool,” said Dr Pryce, bluntly.
“Why? I was ill—it was the same thing. You saved me—so you save her too. She must not die. It means too many things. If she dies, other people will die. You will die, Dr Pryce.”
“Shall I?” said Pryce, smiling. He took his revolver from the case at his belt, held it by the barrel, and handed it to Smith. “Catch hold of that, will you? Thanks. Now then, you can either put a bullet through my head or you can take your words back. You shall do one or the other. Refuse and I leave you to do the doctoring.”
The King examined the revolver, and handed it back again.
“I apologise,” said the King. “But I have not slept much, and so I judge badly. You must excuse me. Perhaps I wished, too, to make a test. You will take no notice. Itis—”
“I’m in a hurry,” said Pryce. “I want fresh milk for my patient. I’d like cow’s milk, but that can’t be got. Goats?”