The Rev. Cyril Mast left his guests for a few minutes on the lawn, while he went into the club to order breakfast. The hour was early, but not unusually early, and the Exiles’ Club never closed. For a few hours after midnight the staff was much diminished, and only one of the white servants was on duty, but even then a member could always get anything he wanted. At least two-thirds of the members had bedrooms at the club.

But to-day the club did not wear its air of morning freshness. The soiled glasses and laden ash-trays of the night before were left still on the little tables on the verandah and in the hall. Not enough windows had been opened, and the sour smell of stale cigar-smoke poisoned the place. Even the Rev. Cyril Mast, who was by no means particular, noticed it. A reluctant native servant was sent to find Thomas, and failed; a minute later Thomas arrived of his own volition from the bedrooms, looking hurried and worried. His quick eye noticed Mast’s clerical clothes.

“I say, Thomas,” said Mast, “this place is in a hell of a mess.”

“Yes, sir,” said Thomas, and gave a rapid order to two native servants. “Very sorry, sir, but it’s all the schooner.”

“How do you mean?”

“It’s made so many of the gentlemen unusually early. Quite a little excitement, when we first heard about it, sir. Seems it’s just a chance visit from some missionary, but it’s meant more for us to do here—gentlemen requiring baths and breakfasts. Three orders to give at this moment.”

“Do that first, and then I can talk.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Thomas, and called down the speaking-tube. “Drinking cokernut, large gin, ice and dry biscuit to Lord Charles. Got that? Right. Tea and boiled eggs, Mr Bassett. Got that? Right. Those two lots in the bedrooms at once. Coffee, two pork chops and stewed pineapple to Mr Mandelbaum downstairs in twenty minutes. Yes, that’s all. Now, sir, I’m ready.”

“I have two guests from the schooner—one of them is a lady—and I want breakfast for them in the garden. And, look here, Thomas, they’re here for only an hour or so, and we’ve got business, and if possible I don’t want to be interrupted by any of the gentlemen. Put the table in some secluded corner. See?”

“Certainly, sir. Sir John and Dr Soames Pryce are out already, sir, but they will probably have gone to the beach, and I think there’s no other gentleman down yet.”

As they settled the details of the breakfast more windows were opened and a strong, fresh breeze blew in from the sea. Under the eye of Thomas the native servants moved more quickly and order began to be restored.

“You manage those beggars pretty well,” said Mast.

But Thomas was pessimistic. Four gallons of methylated spirits had been stolen from the club stores, and for the life of him he couldn’t find out which of his boys had got it. It was his belief that the only man who could really manage them was King Smith.

The Rev. Cyril Mast had been careful to place chairs for his guests where the orange-trees screened them from any view of the house. Mr Lechworthy was perfectly contented to stay where he had been put. He was quite happy, and he promised himself that presently he would acquire valuable material for a sketch of a Protestant mission on one of the smallest, the loneliest, and the most beautiful of the South Sea islands. Meanwhile he had risen very early, and he had some ability for the five-minute snooze. His head went back and the brim of his black felt hat shaded his eyes. But Hilda Auriol had sighted a big parrot, swaying on its perch in a patch of sunshine, and it was her wont to make friends with all tame birds and beasts.

She went up and spoke to the parrot. The bird gave a husky cough, imitated the act of expectoration, and began to say the three worst things it knew. Then it sat blinking and thinking in silence. As Hilda passed the verandah, the French windows of the card-room were flung wide open, and she caught one glimpse of it—precisely as it had been left the night before. She returned and roused Mr Lechworthy.

“There are at least sixteen missionaries here, uncle, which seems a good many for such a small island. The sixteen play cards, drink, and teach a parrot bad language. I don’t think I like them.”

Mr Lechworthy was much startled. “What do you mean, my dear?”

Hilda told him precisely what she had seen—the card-room with the four tables, at all of which play had taken place, and the other tables piled with glasses, gazogenes, and tiny decanters. She pointed out the parrot, and once more the bird became clearly articulate and quite reprehensible.

“I cannot understand it,” said Mr Lechworthy. “The thing’s incomprehensible. I must see into this—there may be something which I shall have to put a stop to. I ought not to have brought you here, Hilda. You must leave me and get back to the boat at once.”

Hilda laughed. “Oh, no. We’ll see it through together. Here comes our host.”

“Well, he shall have his chance to explain. He spoke of other white men—traders and planters. They may be responsible. It is impossible to believe that a minister of the true religion would—No, he will explain.”

Hilda and her uncle went forward to meet Mast. They stood now in full view of the house and close to the entrance to the garden. Mast was voluble in his apologies. He was sorry to have kept them so long, but he was afraid his native servants were not very intelligent. He feared that breakfast would be rather primitive when it did arrive. But they would have it in a spot from which one of the loveliest views in the island could be obtained.

Mr Lechworthy smiled pleasantly. He and his niece preferred to live quite simply, and it was most kind of Mr Mast to entertain them in any case. “While we are waiting for breakfast, perhaps you will show us the mission-house. We should particularly like to see that—the church, too, that you built for the natives.”

Cyril Mast made three different excuses in three different sentences. Lechworthy watched him narrowly, and drew one or two correct conclusions. His pleasant smile vanished, and beneath their heavy brows his eyes looked serious.

And then Bassett’s curious little figure appeared on the verandah. He had hurried through his breakfast and was hastening down to the beach to find out what he could of the schooner. But he was scarcely outside the doors before the wind, blowing now with increasing force, caught up his big felt hat and whirled it into the bushes. Bassett chased his hat, and for the moment did not notice the little group by the orange-trees. But Lechworthy’s quick eye had already recognised him.

“That man over there—is he also engaged in missionary work?”

“Yes. In a sense, yes,” stammered Mast. “He—”

“It will be interesting to talk to him about it. I happen to know him, and I will call him. Bassett!”

Bassett was startled and turned sharply. He came very slowly across the lawn, much as a dog comes to his master for punishment. What on earth was Lechworthy doing in Faloo? Was he, too, flying from justice? That would explain the arrival of the schooner and the fact that he was evidently on friendly terms with Cyril Mast. But Bassett had to put that notion aside. Knowing Lechworthy, he knew that it was not possible. And Bassett was very much afraid. What did Lechworthy mean to do? Well, he must put the best face on it he could. A defence that would be torn to rags in court might seem plausible enough in Faloo.

“Good-morning, Mr Lechworthy,” said Bassett. “This is a great surprise. Morning, Mast.”

“Bassett,” said Lechworthy, “Mr Mast, whom I had not met before, brought us here from my schooner. He has told me that you are associated with him in his missionary work here. Now you, Bassett, I have met many times before, and I know your history.”

But it was not Bassett who answered; it was Cyril Mast, whose face was white and twitched curiously.

“This is my fault, Mr Lechworthy,” said Mast. “I had not meant to represent myself to you as a missionary. But you made the mistake, and I was tempted to go on with it.”

“Yes,” said Lechworthy, quietly. “I don’t think I see why. You hardly seem to be enjoying a practical joke.”

“Don’t you? For four years I have not spoken with a decent white man or woman. We are all the same here—and we’re here because there’s no other place left. If you had known about me—the truth about me—you would not have spoken to me at all. That’s all. Don’t ask me any questions, please. I’m going to leave you now. Get back to the schooner at once; any of the natives on the beach will find a canoe for you.”

Without a word to Bassett Mast raised his hat and turned away. He went up the steps of the verandah and into the club-house.

“I think,” said Hilda, “that his advice is good. It’s blowing hard now, and the Snowflake can’t lie where she is—with the reef on her lee.”

“Yes, my dear, we will go. But I must have a few words with Mr Bassett in private. Go on ahead of us a little.”

And now Bassett found his tongue. “You must not pay any attention to what Mast said, Mr Lechworthy. Mast is a good fellow, but he suffers from fits of morbid depression in which he believes himself to have done horrible things—the life here is very lonely, you know—no amusements of any kind—nobody to speak to.”

Lechworthy thought of the card-tables. “Bassett,” he said, “it’s not about Mast but about yourself that I wish to speak. Many have looked for you and have not found you. I have found you unwittingly—I think because I was sent to find you. You are a thief, Bassett. You are a murderer, for one of those poor women whose property you stole took her own life.”

“I am absolutely innocent, Mr Lechworthy. I have a complete explanation. You—should be careful, sir. I have seen men shot dead on this island for saying less than you have said to me.”

“Do not try to frighten me, Bassett. I am ready for death when God wills, and death will come no sooner than that. You are coming back home with me, Bassett. You’ve fled to the far corner of the earth, and it’s no use; your sin has found you out. You are coming back to take your trial, and, if need be, your punishment. Do that, and I will help you by all the means in my power. I will help you to make your peace with man and to something better—your peace with God. It’s the one way to happiness. You’ll find no way here. Turn back for nothing. Come now, this moment.”

Even as he spoke Bassett had made his plan. Hilda, a few yards in front of them, turned round. “Which way?” she called.

“The little track to the right, if you please,” called Bassett, “it’s the shortest.” Then he turned to Lechworthy. “I will come,” he said. “I put myself in your hands unreservedly.”

The little track to the right was very narrow and led through thick scrub, damp and odorous with the scent of the frangipani bushes. Hilda, well on ahead, fought her way through a tangle of lianas. Behind her came Lechworthy, crouching and going gingerly, serenely happy. Behind him at a little distance came Bassett, his hat under his arm, sweating profusely, the revolver which he had taken out from his pocket held clumsily in his shaking right hand.

And some way behind Bassett, going far faster than any of them, and unseen by any of them, came the lithe figure of King Smith.

Just as Bassett fired the King’s club came down heavily on his head. Hilda turned with a cry, as she heard the report, and struggled back again to her uncle. Mr Lechworthy had at last found a place where he could stand upright and ease his aching back. He held his black felt hat in his hand, and examined the bullet-hole in the rim with a mild, inquiring benevolent eye.

“You are not hurt, uncle?”

“Not in the least, my dear, thanks to this gentleman.”

“Get up,” said King Smith to Bassett.

Dazed, rubbing his sore head with one hand, Bassett staggered to his feet. He looked from one to the other bewildered. In this wind, that gave a voice to every bush, he had not heard the approach of King Smith. And now his revolver lay on the ground, and the King’s foot was on it, and it was the King who spoke in a way that Bassett had not heard before.

“I have finished with you. Go where you like and do what you like. And a little before midnight you will die.”

It was the definite sentence of death, and Bassett knew it. Half-stunned as he was, he could still lie and make a defence.

He began an explanation. He had taken out the revolver to draw the cartridges and stumbled. The thing was a pure accident. But of course King Smith was not in earnest. He could not sentence a white man to death like that. He would be elected to the white men’s club in a few days. The white men were his partners in business, and—

The King cut him short. “It is to the King and not to the trader that you speak now,” he said, as he picked up Bassett’s revolver. “Do not compel me to shoot you where you stand. It is better that you should have a few hours to arrange your affairs. Shortly before midnight, remember.”

Bassett turned away in silence. Certainly the white men would act together and stop an outrage of this kind. He must see Sir John and Dr Pryce at once.

The King was transformed immediately from a stern judge into a courteous man. He made many apologies to Lechworthy. He brought news from the Snowflake, from which he had just returned. The wind had got up so suddenly that there had been no time to send for Lechworthy; the schooner had run for the lee of the island.

“I think, Mr Lechworthy, that the English have a proverb that it is an ill wind which blows nobody any good. I confess that I am very glad to get this opportunity of speaking with you. You can help us very much in this island if you will. Of course my palace in the interior will be entirely at the disposal of yourself and your niece. A guard will be placed there, and I can guarantee your personal safety. I will do my best for your comfort. And in a day or two, when the hurricane has blown itself out, you shall go on your way again if you will.”

“We owe you our lives, sir,” said Mr Lechworthy with some dignity. “And now we must thank you for your hospitality as well. It is as though God had sent you to save us. We shall come to you willingly and with the utmost gratitude.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Hilda.

“Perhaps,” said the King, “you will do me a greater service than anything I am able to do for you. Now, if you will follow me back to the next clearing, some of my people will be waiting for us.”

“There’s just one thing,” said Hilda, hesitatingly. She had never spoken to a King before, and she was rather shy about it.

“Yes?” said the King, smiling. “The schooner? It will be quite safe.”

“I’m afraid,” said Hilda, “that I meant—er—clothes.”

“I foresaw that,” said the King. “Everything in that way that could be got together in the few minutes that we had to spare has already been brought ashore in my canoes. If there is anything further that you would like, another canoe will go out to the schooner as soon as it is practicable.”

“Thanks so much,” said Hilda, fervently.

They retraced their steps to the clearing, for the path by which Bassett had taken them led only into the scrub. Many natives were in waiting, full of smiles and excitement. To one group after another the King gave rapid yet careful directions. Some sped inland and others down to the beach. Presently some twenty of the native boys were racing on bicycles up the road to the King’s house. Soon only two of the natives remained, two girls of surpassing beauty, chosen by the king from many aspirants. The King turned to Hilda.

“Miss Auriol, these two girls wish to be your friends, and to do everything that you want while you are on the island. They will be in attendance upon you while you are at my house, if you will let them come. They are of my kin, and they speak a little English. If you will have them, you will make them very happy.”

Hilda had already been watching the girls with frank admiration. “Oh, yes, please,” she said eagerly. “There is nothing I should have liked better.”

Tiva and Ioia flew to her side at once. Hilda made in them pleasant discoveries of shyness, naÏvetÉ, curiosity, the utmost friendliness, and a delicious sense of humour. Their questions were many and amazing, their broken English made her laugh, and their laughter echoed her own. Even in the short descent to the beach, these fascinating people made her forget how near she had been to tragedy. The beautiful island of Faloo that had begun to be dark and hateful to her took up its charm again.

Behind the group of girls walked Mr Lechworthy in placid converse with the King.

“Events happen quickly here,” said Lechworthy. “A bogus missionary—a meeting with an absconding solicitor, whom I knew in his better days—an attempt to murder me—my escape, for which I thank you, sir, and, unhappily, the sentence of death.” He hesitated, and then ventured to point out that in England an attempt to murder was punished less severely.

To the ignorant native the English practice seemed to be illogical and to put a premium on bad shooting. But he did not raise this point. He said that he had never pronounced sentence on a white man before, though the white men in his island had done much wrong. This was not the only offence that Bassett had committed, and it was necessary that he should die. “Here, you see, I am the King and the law—and my island is not England. It is all different. You will see later.”

There was a pause, and then the King said, “I already know something of you, Mr Lechworthy. I read your speeches at the time of the South African war, and an article about you which appeared a year or more ago in a paper called the Spectator. I have your pamphlet about Setton Park, and I have many copies of the Morning Guide containing articles signed by you. I cannot tell you with what joy I found it was you that the Snowflake had brought. You, perhaps more than any other Englishman, can help us here.”

“Every minute, sir, I become more surprised. Here, many hundreds of miles from civilisation, I find a native king who speaks English like an Englishman, procures and reads the English papers, even knows something of such a seventh-rate politician and busy-body as myself. But, sir, with the best will in the world to help you in any way that my conscience permits, I don’t see what I am to do.”

“If you are kind enough to permit me to dine with you to-night, I will explain everything.”

They had reached the beach, and once more the King changed the subject.

“You breakfasted at the Exiles’ Club? No? I thought perhaps that might be so. Well, it is all ready here.” The King led the way to a broad balcony of his unofficial residence, well sheltered from the wind. “You will be more comfortable at my house inland—here there is not much.”

Certainly, the plates and cups were of various patterns and had seen service; the forks and spoons were not coated with a precious metal, and the use of the Union Jack as a cloth to the low breakfast-table could only be excused by those who saw that a compliment was intended. But Mr Lechworthy drank the best coffee he had met in the islands, and devoured in blind faith delicious fruits of which he did not even know the names. “Also very good,” he murmured at every fresh experiment. King Smith had business needing his attention elsewhere, and it was Tiva and Ioia who waited upon his guests. Nominally these two girls did not breakfast, but Tiva ate sugar when she happened to come across it, and Ioia drank coffee out of Hilda’s cup when Hilda had finished with it. In the intervals they learned the word “Hilda,” and exchanged the story of the robber-crab for hints on hair-dressing. Of their own toilette they spoke with an innocent freedom, utterly open-air and natural, which to some European girls might have been disconcerting. But Hilda had picked up the right point of view, an invaluable possession to the traveller anywhere. She had talked and played with native girls in Tahiti and other islands, but she had found nothing so charming as Tiva and Ioia.

“When shall we go on to the palace?” Hilda asked.

“Sometime—plenty quick,” said Tiva. The answer was not precise; but then to Tiva the question was idle, for what on earth does time matter?

“I wonder,” said Mr Lechworthy, “if you could tell us anything about this palace? It must be an interesting place.”

Mr Lechworthy inspired the girls with some awe. It was quite clear to them that he was a very great chief indeed, and possibly King Edward VII. Never before had King Smith received any white man in this way. Wherefore Tiva hid her face in Hilda’s shoulder. Ioia said thoughtfully that the palace was a “plenty-plenty big house.” She had thoughts of adding a few picturesque inventions—it was so hard for her not to give everybody everything they wanted—but she refrained. It subsequently transpired, in talk with Hilda, that neither Tiva nor Ioia had ever seen the King’s official residence. It stood in a big garden, hidden by trees, and the whole place had been taboo to all native women. A few of the native men had charge of it, and no one else had been allowed to enter. This would be changed now. Tiva and Ioia were to reside there as long as Hilda remained, and it was clear that they looked forward with delight to this privilege and, possibly, to the satisfaction of their curiosity.

King Smith himself announced that all was now ready for the drive to his house in the interior. There were two light, well-built buggies, with island ponies harnessed to them. Hilda and her two attendants went in the first vehicle, followed by the King and Mr Lechworthy. The luggage had already gone on, borne on the heads of natives. The drive was along a wide, white-powdered road, bordered on either side by groves of palms. Glorious bougainvilleas made streams and splashes of colour. The tall utu scattered its graceful plumes of rose and white. Sheltered though the road was, the travellers could hear the roar of the wind, and now and then a soft thud, as a nut heavily-husked thumped to the ground.

As they went, the King told Lechworthy all that he wished to know about the Exiles’ Club.

“But how can you permit it, sir—this lazar-house, this refuge for the worst scum of Europe polluting your beautiful kingdom?”

“I have not only permitted it, I have even—in vain—tried to become a member of the club. I have done even worse. My friend, if a man wishes to escape from a prison, he will use good tools, if he has them, to break through the walls. And if he has not good tools, he will use anything that comes to his hand—rusty iron, old nails, anything. And he will use them even if they hurt his hand and put a festering wound in it.”

“Yes, sir, I see what you mean. I will not judge hastily. To-night, I think you said—”

“To-night I tell you everything. You will find much to condemn, much that is hateful to you. But you love liberty and you will help my people in spite of all. Then I shall no longer need the bad tools, and I shall put them down. And as for the festering wound in my hand, I shall burn it with a little gunpowder and in time it will be made whole again.”

Lechworthy, watching him as he spoke, was conscious that he had found here a master among men, clear in purpose, indomitable in pursuit of it. But where was the man’s Christianity? What were his political purposes? Was there no danger in being drawn into them? Well, that night he would see. He had already found that the King could be inexorable, and that it seemed impossible to procure postponement of the execution of Bassett even by one single hour.

Bassett himself was horribly frightened, but he did not believe that the sentence of death would be carried out. For the moment King Smith was angry; later in the day Bassett would see him again, or would get Sir John to do it for him. He would persist, of course, that the shot was accidental. Besides, King Smith might be pleased to say that he did not speak as a trader, but he still was a trader, and on the trader the members of the Exiles’ Club could bring very stringent and serious pressure to bear. If the King still persisted—well, it was easy enough for him to pronounce sentence, but he would find it impossible to carry it out.

In the hall of the club Mr Bassett found the Rev. Cyril Mast and Lord Charles Baringstoke. The latter was shivering in pale blue pyjamas and an ulster; he had not yet bathed, neither had he brushed his yellow hair. The two men were getting on well with a bottle of doubtful champagne.

“Hullo, Mr damned Bassett,” said his lordship. “You’ve got a lot of blood on your collar. Somebody been crackin’ your egg for you?”

Bassett took no notice of him. He turned upon Mast and swore hard at him. So choked was he with rage that he could hardly articulate. He repeated himself over and over again. Had Mast gone clean out of his mind? What had he done it for? What had he brought Lechworthy there for? Lechworthy of all people! He stormed and spluttered his abuse.

“Lechworthy was my guest and you can mind your own business,” said Mast, sullenly, and refilled his glass. “If you swear at me again, I’ll hit you.”

“My business?” screamed Bassett—but he did not swear this time. “Why, wait till you’ve heard. We’re done—every man of us—and all the result of your folly. You haven’t seen King Smith, but I have—and he means to take my life to-night. Oh, what’s the good of talking to you boozers? Where’s Pryce? Where’s Sir John?”

“Ask the waiter,” said Mast.

“Look here, old friend, I’ll tell you. Pryce and Sir John went out to find Duncombe,” said Lord Charles. “Duncombe’s been stopping out all night. Naughty, naughty! And won’t he catch it from Sir Jonathan Gasbags? Jaw, jaw, jaw! Lordy, I had some of it yesterday! I say, Bassett, has anything really been happening? Because, if so, I should like to be in it. Why, there they are!”

Sir John and Dr Soames Pryce entered from the verandah. Mast and Bassett both began to speak at once, angrily and in a high voice. Lord Charles Baringstoke gave a quite good imitation of a north-country pitman encouraging a dog-fight. The noise was terrific. Members came out from the reading-room to see what was happening. Servants paused on the stairs to watch.

Sir John’s walking-cane came down with a crack on the table before him. “Silence!” he roared. And he got it.

“Now then,” he said severely, “is this a club or a bear-garden? You—members of the committee—behaving like this? Now, Mr Bassett. Now, sir, I’ll hear you first. And don’t shout, please.”

“A most serious thing has happened, Sir John. I fear that we’re done for. I must see you and Dr Pryce in private about it. And the whole thing’s due to the damned folly of this man Mast.”

The champagne bottle whizzed past his head, missing him by a hair’s-breadth and smashing on the opposite wall. Mast would have followed up the attack, but he met a quick fist with the weight of Dr Pryce behind it; the lounge-chair on which he fell collapsed under him, and he lay sprawling on the floor.

“You all seem very excited,” said Dr Pryce, cheerfully. “I would suggest, Sweetling, that you and Mr Bassett go off to his room, and I’ll join you there in a minute.”

“Very well,” said Sir John. “Come on, Mr Bassett. This must be discussed quietly.”

“Get up, old cockie,” said Dr Pryce, extending a hand to Mast. “Made up your mind to bring disgrace on the cloth this morning, haven’t you? You’ve been drinking too much. Go and lie down for a bit—you can’t stand it, you know.”

“You’re a good chap, Pryce,” said Mast. “Perhaps I can stand it and perhaps I can’t. But I’m going on with it for this day anyhow. Thomas, I say, where’s Thomas?”

“Go to the devil your own way then,” said Pryce, and followed Sir John and Mr Bassett.

Lord Charles Baringstoke turned to the on-lookers. “Seem very cross, don’t they?” he said. “Now is anybody going to stand me one little brandy before I go up to bathe my sinful body?”

In the secretary’s room Bassett’s story was told at length. Sir John listened to it with gravity and Dr Soames Pryce with a sardonic smile. In the main Bassett stuck to the facts, but he lied when he said that Mast was drunk when he brought Lechworthy to the club. “I left Lechworthy with King Smith, and he can’t have got back to the Snowflake. So I suppose that he’s with the King now.”

“Most likely,” said Sir John, drumming on the table with his nails. “See, Pryce? Remember what I said? Well, the King’s got into touch at last. Lord knows what Lechworthy was doing here, though.”

“Yes,” said Pryce. “That is so. The illustrious visitor will stop at His Majesty’s official residence. That is why we met that gang of boys cycling up there.”

“It was the worst of luck,” whined Bassett. “If King Smith hadn’t come up just at that moment I should have saved the situation. You see that, of course.”

“No, I don’t,” said Sir John.

“Bassett, my poor friend,” said Dr Pryce, “you’ve made every possible blunder. I can’t think of one that you’ve left out. I’m not going to argue about it, but it is so. So don’t brag about saving situations.”

“You express my own opinion,” said Sir John. “And the consequences of your blunders, Bassett, are likely to be serious.”

“Anyhow, the consequences are serious. The most serious of all is that my life is threatened.”

Dr Pryce laughed.

“You’ll pardon us if we don’t think so,” said Sir John. “But you can cheer up, Bassett. Threatened men sometimes live long. Remain in the club. It will be well guarded to-night. Every precaution will be taken. Smith simply can’t get at you—short of a general attack on the white men by the natives, and he won’t risk that. It wouldn’t suit his book at all just now. Meanwhile, you appeal to Lechworthy.”

“Surely he’s the last man in the world to—”

“He’s the only man who’s likely to have much influence with King Smith just now, and he won’t approve of irregular executions. If he asks to be allowed to take you back to England, he’ll probably get you. And it’s better to go than to die—also, you can probably give him the slip somewhere or other on the way.”

“Yes,” said Bassett, rubbing his chin. “There’s that. There’s always that.”

“Look here, Bassett,” said Dr Pryce, suddenly, “we shall want four or five good men to patrol outside from sunset to midnight—sober men who can shoot and know when to shoot—Hanson and Burbage are the right type. Go now and find them.”

“I’ll do it at once. Shall I bring them here?”

“No. Just get their names. I’ll talk to them later.”

“And, I say, wouldn’t it be a good thing if we elected King Smith a member now?”

“Might as well offer a mad buck-elephant a lump of sugar. You go and find those men.”

“Now,” said Dr Pryce, as soon as Bassett had gone.

“Smith will tell Lechworthy everything. Lechworthy goes home with our names in his pocket. Therefore he must not go home.”

“Certainly. Nor must other people go home with similar information.”

“They must not,” said Sir John. “Therefore we must get a man on board the Snowflake. That ship must be lost with crew and passengers. Our man may be able to save himself or he may not. It’s a devilish risky business. Still, money will tempt people.”

“I wouldn’t trust a paid man on that job,” said Pryce. He reflected a minute. “My lot’s thrown in with the sinners. Tell you what, Sweetling—I’ll do it myself.”