Sir John took a cigar from a golden and armorial case and snipped the end.

“Well, Hanson,” he said, “you’re a new man on the committee, and new men bring new ideas. So we are to attack the King, are we? It can be done, of course. You may leave the details to me, but if I saw the regrettable necessity, you may take it from me that Smith would be removed to-night. But what I do not see is how it would do us any good. Smith still stands between some of these angry natives and ourselves, though it’s a question how much longer he will do it. If the King goes, there is still Lechworthy. Then the Snowflake is coming back here. So, you see—”

“Yes, yes,” said Hanson. “But that is not the way the game should be played. Shall I tell you?”

“Certainly. That is what I want.” Sir John lit his cigar, and was careful not to throw the match down on the lawn, for he disliked untidiness.

“Our first move is to make a feint of accepting the situation. At the next meeting we go through the formalities of winding up the club; we discuss quite openly the means of getting away from the island, and speculate as to what will be the safest place to which to retreat. We allow Smith to hear all this, and from him, or from Pryce, it will go through to Lechworthy. Nobody but you and I, Sir John, will know it is a feint. We shall be doing nothing that will surprise Pryce, since he thinks it is the only thing left for us; and he had better not be told. I know the man is loyal, but I mean to cut out even the possibility of a mistake. The other side will continue the game according to their original plan. Lechworthy and his niece will sail away in the Snowflake, and take the next available steamer for England. Our second move is then—and not till then—to arrange for the disappearance of Smith. And that wins us the game.”

“I don’t see it.”

“Smith, as is common enough in these islands, has no child; neither has he any official and acknowledged wife, which is much less common. The succession would certainly be disputed. The support and the weapons of the white men would turn the scale in that dispute. In other words, the new King of Faloo would be our nominee, and would have to carry out the conditions on which he gained our support. He would repudiate Smith’s scheme entirely; he would refuse any business or political association with Lechworthy. What can Lechworthy do? Nothing. I doubt if he could have got Great Britain to give this weird sort of protection to Faloo, when the King and people of Faloo asked for it and would pay for it. He is too practical a visionary to attempt it when Faloo repudiates anything of the kind.”

“Yes, you’ve worked it out. Smith’s a good life, and I’d never thought about the succession myself—you’re sure of your facts there?”

“Quite sure. What do you think of it?”

“Good. We must do it. But it’s no cinch.”

“That’s true,” said Hanson. “You heard what that native boy told Dr Pryce. A rising against the white men may take place any moment now, and might upset my scheme; we should have to deal with it as it came and wait chances.”

“I think that’s all gas. I used to believe in it, but it would have come earlier if it had been coming at all. I never met a native yet, except Smith—and he has got a dash of white man in him—who had the grit to start a thing of that kind and run it through. I’d something quite different in my mind. When Lechworthy hears from the new King he will know perfectly well that we are at the bottom of it.”

“Probably.”

“Then he will give us all away.”

“I doubt it. He would find it too difficult to explain why he had not given us away before. Besides, he is not a vindictive man; his conscience is his only guide, and if his conscience does not prescribe a man-hunt now it will not prescribe it then. I know something of Lechworthy. He would cut his hand off—and do it cheerfully—to convert us, so that we gave ourselves up to what is called justice; but to pursue and to punish is not in his nature. Besides, his gratitude to Pryce will hold him.”

“You may be right. It is difficult to forecast so far ahead, and things we have not even imagined may happen, but you may be right. If it comes off the position is better than ever. We’ve dealt with Smith with moderate success, but there are not two Smiths and we shall do as we like with the next king. You’ve shown us the best game to play and we will play it. Then, for the present, we do nothing?”

“Nothing,” said Hanson. “When the next meeting of committee is called we acquiesce in Dr Pryce’s proposals. We take first steps towards winding-up. They will be merely paper-work, and serve to fill in time till Lechworthy goes. Then—I leave it to you. You must be prompt. Smith must go.”

“Yes,” said Sir John. “I think it is likely that his death will be the result of a private quarrel. That will be the accepted version.”

“Very well. You’ll arrange all that. Lunch, eh?”

“I think so,” said Sir John. And they turned back towards the club-house.

It occurred to Lord Charles Baringstoke to be curious as to the affairs of the club that afternoon. His method was direct. “And what did the committee do?” he asked Sir John, as they sat on the verandah together.

Sir John neither hesitated nor lied. He told the exact truth so far as he knew it—as to one transaction which had taken place in committee, while they were still waiting for Dr Pryce.

“We’ve given provisional election to a Mr Pentwin, whose credentials and application arrived by last mail. He himself arrives on Smith’s second schooner. He should be here in a day or two.”

“I got a newspaper by the same mail. He was Pentwin’s Popular Bank, and the police believe he’s in Barcelona. He’s got the stuff with him too.”

“We need not go into that, Charles,” said Sir John, with dignity. “We do not discuss the mistakes that members here may have made in their past life, nor the mistakes which the police may have made. Mr Pentwin sends his subscription and a letter of recommendation from the widow of an old member, Herbert Wyse.”

“Didn’t know him.”

“No,” said Sir John. “Poor Wyse was called to his rest before you arrived here.”

Wyse had thought that he wished to get away from the police. After a few months on Faloo he had found that what he really wanted to get away from was himself and the thing he had to think about. He cut his throat.

The provisional election of Pentwin had been a matter of course. The only comment in committee had been a remark of Hanson’s that he would sooner have had a recommendation from a living member of the club. As Sir John said, if Pentwin was not suitable, he would not remain a member; one or two such cases had occurred before and had given no trouble.

As to the principal business of the committee, Sir John said not one word to Lord Charles Baringstoke, who believed that this provisional election of Pentwin had been the principal business and was quite satisfied. Sir John, as has already been said, had told the truth about the election so far as he knew it. He was exact in saying that a subscription and letter of recommendation from poor Mrs Wyse had been received, and that the name given was Pentwin. Also, the solitary passenger who was at present cursing the cockroaches and discomforts of Smith’s smaller trading vessel, and enduring many things in order to reach Faloo, called himself Pentwin and was thus addressed by people who had time to talk to him. The initials H. P. were on his rather scanty luggage, and the Christian name of the hero, or villain, of Pentwin’s Popular Bank was undeniably Hector.

But this man was not Hector Pentwin, knew very little about him, and knew less about bank business than he did about some other things. Hector himself, flying from justice with a presentiment (subsequently fulfilled) that he would be caught and punished, would have been much surprised had he known that anybody was impersonating him. He could have imagined no possible motive. Yet the impersonator (whom we may continue to call by the assumed name of Pentwin) had his sound and sufficient reasons.

He was a round-faced little man with a cheery smile and an inexhaustible flow of rather commonplace talk. He had money to spend, and appeared immune to alcohol and anxious to prove it. In two days he seemed quite to have fallen into the ways of the club, and was on the best of terms with all the members.

“Pentwin will do very well,” said the president, and the secretary agreed.

The Rev. Cyril Mast extended patronage to Pentwin, who received it with a seemly gratitude.

“Of course,” said Mast, “as a member of the committee I have to exercise discretion. I can’t discuss the committee’s business.”

“Certainly not,” said Pentwin. “I shouldn’t expect it. Besides, I’m the least curious of men.”

“Apart from that, I shall be only too glad to put you up to things.”

“That’s really kind of you. I’m a new member, but I hope to spend many happy years here, and for that reason I don’t want to begin by treading on the toes of other members. You understand what I mean. Nobody has said a word to me about Pentwin’s Popular Bank, and I appreciate that. It shows nice feeling. Before I make any blunder, you can perhaps tell me what subjects to avoid with particular members.”

They chatted over the subject, and Mast became from force of habit rather vinously and aggressively moral on the sins of other people. He noticed it himself and half apologised for it.

“You see, Pentwin, I have never been able to shut my eyes to the serious side of life. Have another drink?”

“Thank you, I will,” said Pentwin, and did.

All went smoothly and peacefully now at the Exiles’ Club. A tentative order to King Smith had been received and executed with alacrity, and so far he had shown no disposition to quarrel with the men whose partnership he was renouncing. Members of the club who had had fears of what Lechworthy might do had been quieted by Sir John, or Hanson, or Mast. It had all been arranged, they were told. Pryce, clever fellow, had got Lechworthy’s promise of silence in exchange for his professional services to Lechworthy’s niece. Mast had the feeling of elation which comes to a man who after a period of depression finds himself becoming of importance. Sir John, after his talk with the chess-player in the garden, had talked very seriously to Mast. “We have a new scheme on foot,” he said. “Pryce is not in it, and you are.” Nothing could have made Mast better pleased. True, he was not told what the scheme was. Until Lechworthy’s departure nothing was to be done except the first formal step towards the winding up of the club; and it was generally to be given out that Pryce had squared Lechworthy. “Once Lechworthy has gone,” said Sir John, “you’ll be called upon to act. You’ll be shown what to do. Do it, and you’ll wipe out your past follies, and the new scheme will go through and we shall all be safe.”

Sir John had considered that whoever killed King Smith would be very lucky indeed if he escaped being killed in his turn. Mast had made the trouble, and had professed his readiness to redeem his mistake. Mast could be spared, for he had greatly deteriorated since his election to the committee. He might as well die that way as from drink. Hanson had planned the game; Sir John would play it; Mast would be merely a miserable pawn, gladly sacrificed for the great end.

Meanwhile, the wretched cat’s-paw felt himself the man of destiny. On some subjects he might chatter freely, but he preserved an iron discretion where Sir John enjoined it. To any member who pressed a question he was reassuring but gave no details. “We’ve gagged Lechworthy all right” was a favourite phrase with him. “You can sleep in your beds.”

He did not mention Lechworthy to the new member, for so far he had no reason to be proud of the subject. But what Mr Pentwin did not hear from the Rev. Cyril Mast he heard at length from Lord Charles Baringstoke, who had no more discretion than the club parrot.

“Lechworthy—you must have heard of him,” said Lord Charles. “Portmanteaux and piety, you know. He’s a G.T. at present, with a pretty niece with him. Funny his bargin’ in here, ain’t it?”

“And where did you say he was living?”

Lord Charles closed one eye impressively. “No use, young man. The same idea had occurred to me, but there isn’t a girl in an English high-class boarding-school who’s quite so well looked after as Lechworthy’s Hilda. She’s up at the King’s house, and you are not invited to inspect the goods.”

“How do you mean?”

“Tell you what happened to myself. I thought I’d have a look, just to see if anything could be done. I never said a word to a soul but I went off on my own. The garden of the place is surrounded by a scraggy hedge standing on the top of a high bank, and it occurred to me that there was a chance the girl might be walking or sitting out in the garden. So I climbed up the bank and looked through the hedge. I didn’t see the girl, but I did see four natives with rifles. Smith has got a young army of them up there, and they are picked smart men. I never thought I could be seen, but I suppose I moved the bushes or something. As their rifles went up to their shoulders I dropped and rolled down the bank. If I’d not done that I should have been jewelled in four holes, like Sweetling’s presentation watch that he’s so proud of. You leave it alone, my son. It’s not healthy.”

“You never tried sending in a native with a note for the girl?” suggested Pentwin.

“It’s like this. There’s a pack of servants there, and there are the gents with rifles. But to every other native the place is taboo. There’s not enough tobacco and coloured shirts in the world to bribe a native to try to get in. You might get a boy to go as far as the entrance and holloa. The guard would turn up, and he could hand over his letter. But the chances are that the letter would go straight to the King, or to Uncle Lechworthy, or to the doctor—who’s a bit of a boss there just now.”

“What doctor’s that?”

“Soames Pryce. On the committee here, and a pretty tough proposition too. The girl fell ill—very ill—rotten. Pryce pulled her through and is stopping on. He’s got Lechworthy in his pocket to do what he likes with, they tell me.”

“I see,” said Pentwin. “Well, things being so, I shan’t bother about the girl.”

To do Pentwin justice he had never in the least bothered about the girl. He knew that he would need shortly to communicate with a person in the King’s house, and he wished to know how to do it, but that person would not be Hilda Auriol. He now permitted himself to be initiated by Lord Charles Baringstoke into the mysteries of lizard-racing, and took his losses with equanimity. He won them back, and more too, at bridge that evening, and had the honour of being congratulated on his game by the great Sir John Sweetling himself.

“A very pleasant, cheery little fellow,” said Sir John when Pentwin had gone up to bed. “Self-made man, I should say. Not much education or manners to boast of. But he’s unpretentious and good-hearted, and his bridge is really excellent.” Nobody values unpretentiousness more highly than the incurably pretentious.

Pentwin occupied the room which had been Bassett’s. He had heard the story of Bassett, but he was not a nervous man. Alone in his own room, his air of careless cheerfulness vanished. He looked quite serious, but not in the least depressed. He had the air of a man playing a difficult game, but a man who had played difficult games before and with success.

From his breast-pocket he took a small canvas envelope, which contained all the papers that he had brought with him, including a wad of Bank of England notes and a proof of his real identity. From the envelope he took a sheet of memoranda, and added to them with a sharp-pointed, indelible pencil in a microscopic writing. He wrote slowly, though he was familiar with the cipher which he was using, and replaced the paper in the envelope.

In pyjamas and slippers he paced up and down the room. Through the open window he could see high up in the distance a tangle of lights among dark trees, where the King’s house stood.

“Well,” he said to himself, as he had often said before, “one must see how things work out.” He placed under his pillow the canvas envelope, a revolver, and a leather bag containing twenty-eight sovereigns and some odd silver. Then he put out his lamp and got into bed.

He could hear a faint murmur of voices below. Then steps came up the stairs, and the voices became audible. The two men were standing at the top of the stairs now.

“You’ve no reason to be nervous,” said a querulous voice, which Pentwin recognised as Mast’s. “You can depend on me, Sir John.”

“But can I?” said a deeper voice. “It will be at the risk of your life.”

“Why can’t you tell me plainly here, and now what it is? Why wait? I’ve shown discretion?”

“Of late? Yes. But don’t talk so loudly.”

“I don’t care one straw about the risk of my life. When the time comes for me to make good my word I shall do it. I’m only too glad that you’ve given me the chance. It amuses Dr Pryce to treat me as a fool and a baby. He’ll see. Well, that doesn’t matter, I don’t want to talk about myself.”

“Quite right. Don’t talk—it’s what you do which counts. Now you’ve got to be patient. You can’t eat your dinner till it’s cooked. You—”

The voices died away down the passage. Pentwin heard a shutting of doors. All was still. “Now,” thought Pentwin, “I wonder what game is on there.” But it troubled him very little, and in a few minutes he was asleep.