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 cool shade. 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 of the 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 his plantations 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 nothing which 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—and Hilda 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,” said Bassett. “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 you mean 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 to Lechworthy. 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 the Snowflake, of course, but you’ll get a chance to give Lechworthy the slip long before 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—special leave 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 of crÊme-de-menthe and 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—whatever he, 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 pictorial evidence 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 were bad 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 did what 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. But he 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 Charles Baringstoke—”

“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 not really 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 with a 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 his business—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 whole of 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 will be 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 was too 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 a letter—”

“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 clear out. 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. The Snowflake’s a sound clean boat, and I prefer it. The inside will 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 the Snowflake?”

“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 generally make 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 the murderer 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.