Lord Charles Baringstoke stretched himself in a lounge-chair on the verandah. It was eleven in the morning, and he had the tired meditative feeling of one who has risen too early. The parrot, who had been sitting for some minutes motionless on its perch, swayed backwards and forwards, considering its repertoire. It produced a plausible imitation of the drawing of a cork.

“Yes,” said Lord Charles Baringstoke, wearily, “that’s rather what I think myself.”

Mr Mandelbaum waddled out to survey the morning. Between his fingers he held a cigar, slightly bloated and rather doubtful, and in these respects curiously like its proprietor.

“Well, my young frient,” said Mandelbaum, “I make myself a good breakfast zis morning.”

“Gross feeder—what? I say, ain’t Soames Pryce ever comin’ back?”

“Ask ze Herr Zecretary. I am noddings here. Do you want pills?”

“No. You see, it’s rather a rum funny thing. You know that lizard of mine—you backed him once.”

“And lost my money. I hop’ he is dead, zat lizart.”

“Yes, he’s dead all right, but that ain’t it. I was exercisin’ him yesterday, when the boy brought me a glass of sherry and angostura with a fly in it.”

“Fly? Vot fly?”

“Just a plain fly, and I hadn’t ordered it. But I fished it out and chucked it to my lizard, who took it in one snap.”

“Vell, vell, vot about it? If you veesh to gomplain zat your drink hat som’ flies—”

“I did the complainin’ at the time, thanks. I don’t let a thing of that kind go past me. But what I mean is that the lizard started off round the course like a flash of light. Cut the record all to rags. Did two rounds and a bit, and then he died, you know. But I’ve got another lizard, and I can get another fly and some more sherry. And I’ve got some money just now, and Soames Pryce has got a lizard that he thinks can’t be beaten. So that’s how it is, you see.”

“I see, my young frient. Dope.”

“Well, puttin’ it coarsely, dope. And good.”

“Ve borrow a lizart and try him again,” said Mr Mandelbaum, thoughtfully. “Perhaps zat vos only a chance. Ach, here is Sir John!”

The neatness and freshness of Sir John’s attire made the other men look untidy. Sir John had been distressed to hear of the carelessness of one of the native waiters the day before, but at the same time he thought it would have been better if Lord Charles had not thrown the glass in the boy’s face. Glassware was so difficult to replace. It would have been enough to have said a word to Thomas about it. “And though the boy’s eye will probably get all right again, we think it’s politic not to handle the natives too roughly.”

“Awfully sorry,” said Lord Charles. “This club etiquette does hedge you around, don’t it? And I give you my word of honour there was nobody else there to chuck the blessed glass at. And—oh! I say, when’s Pryce comin’ back? He’s been away a week.”

“Not quite a week. As it happens, I’m expecting him every moment. But he goes away again to-night.”

“But ze girl vos all right again now, zey tell me,” said Mandelbaum.

“Well, yes,” said Sir John, genially. “A good recovery, I’m glad to say. But possibly Mr Lechworthy is still a little nervous. Smith, too, can’t be there much, he has his business, and I daresay he’s getting the doctor to help him with his guests. Our friend Pryce knows the island, you see.”

“Shall we gather at the river?” suggested the parrot very loudly, and with distinct lapses from accuracy in its reproduction of the melody. Nobody took any notice of it.

“Well, if Pryce is comin’, I’ll wait,” said Lord Charles. “I want to do a little lizard-racin’ with him.”

“Doubt if he’ll have time for it. You see, Charles, I’m sorry to disturb your plans, but we want a little business with the doctor. Committee.”

“Then I’ll find a canoe to take me over to the Snowflake. Unsociable lot on that boat—never come ashore for a drink or anythin’. I should do ’em good.”

“Sorry to disappoint you again, but the Snowflake left Faloo this morning.”

“Where to? When’s she comin’ back?”

Sir John stroked his beard and looked very discreet. “I’m afraid,” he said, “I’m not in a position to say.”

“Well, I am gettin’ it in the neck this mornin’, I don’t think. Mayn’t do what I’ve done—can’t do what I wanted—and not to be told anythin’ about anythin’. Krikey! And nothin’ for breakfast but two oranges and a bad headache. What a life!”

“Ah, ha!” laughed Sir John. “You keep it up too late, you and Mast!”

“Shall we,” screamed the parrot with much emphasis on the first word, and then paused. With its head on one side, it blinked at Sir John and observed parenthetically, “You damned thief!” For the moment it had forgotten what it had first intended to say. “Gather at the river?” it suddenly added with perfunctory rapidity.

As a matter of fact Sir John knew no more than the others about the destination of the Snowflake. Nor did he know when she would return to take up her owner. His information was derived from a very laconic note from Dr Pryce, received on the previous evening. “Syndicate chucked,” wrote Dr Soames Pryce. “Lechworthy partners Smith. Snowflake leaves to-morrow morning, but returns for Lechworthy. Shall be at the club for a few hours then. So please call committee to meet me and explain.” That morning Sir John had received the King’s formal notice of his intention to buy out his partners. The letter was brief, severely correct, business-like in every phrase, and clearly had nothing of King Smith about it except the signature.

The situation was very serious. No longer had the Exiles’ Club the slightest hold over King Smith. Nor did it seem likely that the King’s association with Lechworthy would be confined to the business venture. The King, Sir John had guessed, had other schemes. A desperate crisis must sometimes be dealt with in a desperate way, and of the desperate ways it is better to say as little as possible. If one uses the knife to cut the knot and all comes free, it may be more comfortable afterwards to ignore what has happened and to hide the knife. Sir John spoke of the departure of the Snowflake, for this was, or would be in an hour, pretty generally known, but he was not going to babble of the situation to irresponsible people. He was careful to emphasise the note of indulgent good-humour, and gave no indication of the anxiety that tortured him.

Dr Soames Pryce came across the lawn with irritating slowness, rolling a cigarette as he walked. He greeted Sir John and the other two men, and made one or two poignant observations on the personal appearance of Lord Charles. Then he turned to the parrot.

“Nice morning, Polly, ain’t it?”

“Hell to you, sir!” said that profane fowl promptly.

Sir John showed pardonable signs of impatience. “Hanson and Mast have been waiting in the secretary’s room for some time,” he said.

“Sorry. I’ll come.”

But in the hall a further interruption took place. Thomas came forward.

“Beg pardon, sir, but one of the native boys has got his eye a good deal cut about. Gentleman threw a glass at him yesterday.”

“Never mind that now. Another time.” said Sir John.

“No,” said Pryce, “I must go and have a look at him. I shan’t be long, probably. Meanwhile, you and the others can get through all the formal business—you don’t want me for that. You’ve explained the situation?”

“I’ve spoken of it to Hanson and Mast, so far as I know it. You ought to have written in more detail. Do be as quick as you can.”

“There’s no hurry,” said Pryce, cheerfully, as he followed Thomas.

The formal business went through, including the provisional election of a new member, and some desultory discussion followed. The Rev. Cyril Mast looked ill, shaky and depressed. He asked many questions, most of which could not be answered, and repeated at intervals that in his belief Dr Pryce would pull them through. Sir John was barely civil to him, and glanced repeatedly at his watch. Hanson was taciturn.

Half an hour had elapsed before Dr Pryce entered the room. He was quite conscious that he was being talked about as he entered. He nodded to Hanson and Mast, dropped into a chair, and lit a cigarette.

“At last!” said Sir John, severely.

“That chap won’t lose the sight of the eye, but he’s had a damned near shave.”

Sir John controlled himself with difficulty. “Very interesting, doctor. We are not here, however, to consider the fact that one of the native servants has not lost his eyesight, but a subject of almost equal importance—the liberty and probably the lives of every white man on the island. Dr Pryce, gentlemen, comes fresh from the enemy’s camp. He was called in, as you know, to attend Lechworthy’s niece, and he has had unusual opportunities for observation. He has already sent us, very briefly, some alarming and serious news. We shall be glad if he can supplement it in any way, and if he will tell us to what conclusions he has come.”

“Hear, hear,” said Mast.

“The conclusion to which I have come,” said Pryce, “is that Faloo is finished, so far as we are concerned. The Exiles’ Club is done, D-o-n-e, done. Sauve qui peut—that’s the order.”

His three hearers looked at him, and at one another. There was a moment’s silence.

“Rather a sweeping conclusion,” said Sir John, suavely. “I should have to feel very sure that our case was desperate before I accepted it. What has been happening up at the King’s palace?”

“The first few days I was a good deal occupied with my patient, who is now practically well again. Lechworthy and the King had two or three consultations together, at which I was not present. It was not till yesterday morning that they came to their final agreement. Then, as soon as Smith had gone, Lechworthy asked if he could have some talk with me. Well, he told me all that had been arranged, quite fully and frankly.”

“And you believed him?” asked Mast, with a silly assumption of acuteness.

Dr Soames Pryce took no notice of the question and continued. “Lechworthy’s business partnership with the King was first touched upon. I did not know before what terms the syndicate had made with the King, and when I heard them I was not pleased. It’s not surprising that, as soon as he got the chance, Smith supplanted us.”

“You were one of the syndicate yourself,” said Sir John.

“I was asked to put a couple of hundred into the business when I came here. I paid my footing. I knew, of course, that the syndicate had Smith by the neck, and that this was necessary. But I did not know that we were picking his pocket at the same time, which was unnecessary. We needn’t discuss it. Lechworthy will take our place. But that is merely a temporary arrangement, for if the King and Lechworthy succeed in doing what they intend to do, there will be no more trading. Under the trader lies the patriot. The King’s scheme is that Faloo shall be the asylum of a dying race. You were not far wrong, Sweetling. It is to be Faloo for its own people. No white man is to set foot on the island. Civilisation is not to contaminate it, for civilisation kills the native. Under British protection, which is sought, this would be possible.”

“Great Britain is to be asked to protect an island, of which it is to be allowed to make no use whatever,” said Sir John. “Come, doctor, we are practical people.”

“Well, Smith is ready to pay for anything that he has. He is willing, too, to have the thing tried experimentally for a few years, and to risk everything on the experiment being successful in arresting the deterioration and decay of the native race. Lechworthy, too, is just the man to pull such a thing through. He owns an influential paper, and he contributes largely to the party funds. He is not often heard in the House, but he is working behind the scenes most of the time. The idea is sentimental, inexpensive and not dangerous, for France isn’t going to worry about Faloo.”

“The missionary question,” suggested Hanson.

“That created a difficulty for some time. Smith’s way out of it is disingenuous, but it has worked. The white missionary is barred, but native Protestant converts will be admitted freely, and a church will be built. Religion is accepted but not secular education. There will be a church, but there will be no school. As for the Catholics, Smith appears to do what he likes. The priests will ask to be transferred to another island—a sphere of greater usefulness. They came here enthusiastic, but they’ve grown slack and they’ve done themselves too well. Smith knows something perhaps, and could write a letter if necessary, and they know that he could. At any rate there are to be no more Catholics in Faloo. That was a point which told tremendously with Lechworthy. Of course, we know that in a very short time there will be no more Protestants either. We know what happens to the Protestant convert when the white man is away and there is neither moral support nor public opinion to back him.”

“If you had worked on that,” said Mast, “you might have separated Smith and Lechworthy.”

“It might have been tried,” said Sir John.

“It was, and it failed. You see, Sweetling, Smith had been ready for it. The line taken was that the true religion must prevail, whether by the native convert or by the white missionary. The idea of the first Protestant church in Faloo had a glamour about it for Lechworthy. A site is chosen already for that church, and a rough plan sketched out. And I have not the least doubt that it will actually be built. Smith knows what he’s about. I found I had come up against real faith, and with that one cannot argue. And even if I had succeeded, what was the use? So soon as the business partnership comes into being, we lose our hold on Smith, and the position becomes intolerable. He can charge us anything he likes for the goods he supplies. He can refuse to supply us altogether. He can refuse to carry our mail. And certainly he would no longer risk his popularity by standing between us and those of the natives, who, with good reason, hate us. The game’s up. Rien ne va plus.”

“The position is certainly very grave,” said Sir John. “What about the Snowflake?”

“Was to have left yesterday afternoon. Lechworthy asked me if I had any letters to send, but I had none. The delay was caused because Smith had not had time to finish some papers that Lechworthy wanted to send on. Lechworthy himself sent, amongst others, letters to his editor and to his political chief. They will catch a steamer at the nearest port on the route. Then the Snowflake returns to Faloo, to take up Lechworthy and his niece. Those letters are on their way now, and you can imagine the kind of letters that the astonished visitor to Faloo is likely to write. This island has become too public for us.”

“If those letters arrive, that must be so,” said Sir John. “Well, I deprecate any interference with private letters, of course, but there are exceptional cases. Here are we, a body of men, who, from mistakes and misunderstandings, are anxious to retire from the world. Without our invitation and against our wishes this vulgar wealthy manufacturer intrudes himself here, and proposes to make the place intolerable for us. We had a right to see that those letters were not sent. It seems to me, Dr Pryce, that you might have gone on board the Snowflake and, one way or another, managed that.”

“Then you’re wrong, Sweetling. If I could have done it, it would have meant only a temporary postponement of our troubles, but it was not possible. I went to the King’s house as a suspected man. Smith, in a flurried moment, let me see that he suspected me—he thought I meant to kill Miss Auriol, or at any rate to allow her to die. Lechworthy did not suspect me at all; if I had wished to join the Snowflake for this preliminary trip he would have arranged it; he is really absurdly grateful to me. But even he would have thought my desertion of the patient queer, for he wishes her to be still under a doctor’s care. Smith would have gone further, and would have sent a message to the skipper. Do you think a suspected man is going to have a chance to fool with the mail that’s entrusted to a sober Scotch skipper?” Here he looked steadily at Sir John. “Why, he’d have as good a chance of scuttling the ship, and he’d have no chance of that. Suspected people don’t have chances.”

“This is most disappointing,” said Mast, peevishly. “I had felt confident that Dr Pryce would pull us through. And what has he done? Nothing.”

“And what would you have done, you silly boozer?”

“Order,” said Sir John. “These provocative expressions—”

“Very well. Let’s hear what the Rev. Cyril Mast would have done.”

“Naturally, I should have to think over that,” said Mast.

“If you’d learned to think a little earlier, you would not have brought Lechworthy to the Exiles’ Club. You made this trouble, you know.”

“True enough,” said Sir John. “I’ve told you so myself, Mast.”

“I don’t deny it. And I tell you once more that there is no possible act of reparation which I am not ready to make.”

“I can’t say anything about that,” said Pryce. “Not at any rate within the present limitations as to language at committee meetings. And I don’t think there’s much else to say. I’ve one more little thing to tell you, and I heard it as I was on my way here. A native, whom I was treating for pneumonia just about the time of Smith’s rejection as a member here, recovered. To-day he came running after my gee in a highly agitated condition. He had something to say to me. Briefly it came to this, that the white men on the island were to be killed as he put it, pretty dam quick. If necessary, Smith was to be killed too. This was all decided, and I understood that he was one of the conspirators who had decided it. But, as he was pleased to say I had saved his life and he wished to save mine, I was to clear out on the trading schooner, I believe. Personally, if there’s any conspiracy on foot, I think the conspirators are likely to get hurt. You were right about those piano-cases, Sweetling. Smith has got seventy-five men up at his house, and they all have rifles. I mention it in case you may think it of any importance. My own opinion was not altered by it. Lechworthy is not doing any detective or police-work. He’s not sending over a list of names or anything of that kind. But I make no doubt that he has said something of the nature of the Exiles’ Club. If we stay, we are lost. If we disperse, there’s still one more chance. With many of us the scent is cold and the hounds have given up. And the world’s wide. I propose, Mr President, that the question of winding up the club, or of any alternative scheme be considered at another meeting to-morrow. I have not much more time now. And you do not want to decide hurriedly.”

Sir John rather dejectedly agreed, and there was no dissentient voice.

“Then shall we meet again at this time to-morrow?” asked Mast. “That would suit me.”

“What do you think, doctor?” asked Sir John.

“Meet then if you like. I shan’t be here. I’m going fishing with Lechworthy. You know my views. The members of the Exiles’ Club should disperse deviously, and as soon as Smith’s rotten schooners can take them. As to the winding-up of the club, I’m content to leave it in your hands, Sweetling.”

“So in a crisis like this you find it amusing to go fishing,” said the Rev. Cyril Mast with offensive bitterness.

“Fishing is an occupation,” said Pryce. “Pitching idiots through windows is another occupation and it’s difficult to keep off it sometimes.”

“Order, please,” said Sir John. “These suggestions of violence are most improper. At the same time you, Mr Mast, are the very last person who should venture to offer any criticism. Now, gentlemen, as to the date of the next meeting. What do you think, Mr Hanson?”

“This day week,” said Hanson. “By that time we may know more—or other things may have happened.”

“I can be here then,” said Pryce.

The date was agreed upon, and Pryce came out into the hall. He was going to walk back to the King’s house, and he thought he would take a drink first. In the hall Lord Charles Baringstoke came up to him with Herr Mandelbaum in attendance.

“Oh, I say,” said Lord Charles. “I’ve got my money now, you know. And I’ve got a lizard I’d like to back against yours—or against the clock if you like.”

“Well,” said Pryce, “can’t a man have a drink first?”

“Funny thing—just what I was goin’ to propose. What’s yours?”

“Sherry and Angostura,” said Dr Soames Pryce, impressively. “And I’ll have two flies in mine.”

Mandelbaum’s deep bass laughter rolled upwards from a widely-opened mouth.

“Golly!” exclaimed Lord Charles. His look betokened no shame but considerable curiosity. “You’re on it, of course; but, I say, how did you know?”

“When you smashed a glass on the face of that native boy you nearly cut his eye out—but you didn’t cut his tongue out.”

“Goot! Ver’ goot!” roared Mandelbaum.

“So you’ve been patchin’ his face up?” said Lord Charles. “I see. Well, it’s my mistake, ain’t it? But you’ll have a drink all the same.”

“The cheek of it! What, you dirty dog, you try to swindle me and then expect me to drink with you? Well, well, one mustn’t be too particular in Faloo, and you were born without any moral sense, Charles, and it may be Lord knows the last drink we’ll take together. But you’ll drink with me this time. Come on, Mandelbaum.”

Mandelbaum quoted a German couplet to the effect that a drink in the morning has a medicinal value. Lord Charles protested, but permitted Dr Pryce to pay. Sir John and Hanson joined the party. Mast had gone off by himself. He was sick of the alternate patronage and reprobation of Sir John. He was sick of his own miserable position—to be despised by the members of the Exiles’ Club was to be despised indeed. His weak imaginative vanity pictured himself saving the situation, winning even from his enemies a frank and generous admiration. But his drink-bemused brains supplied no plan of action. He found an unfrequented corner of the garden in which to sulk and swill.

Pryce remained but a few minutes, promised Sir John that he would write if there were anything worth writing, and went on his way. And then Sir John called Hanson apart.

“You said very little at the meeting, Hanson. The modesty of the newly-elected, eh?”

“No,” said Hanson. “I had something to say, but it was not the time.”

“Too many listeners? Pryce?”

“I formed an idea about him—you also, probably.”

“He had meant to do—er—something that was not discussed. But he managed to give me good reason why he couldn’t do it. I can’t blame him. And I fear he’s right in his conclusions. What was your idea?”

“That Dr Soames Pryce does not care one damn what becomes of the Exiles’ Club—or what happens to himself either.”

“He’s a very unemotional man, hates scenes, prides himself (so I should imagine) on his philosophical calm.”

“He has himself well in hand, but it struck me that it was done with great difficulty. He would have much liked to kill our friend Mast. Unemotional? Why, the man’s being burned alive with his emotions!”

“What emotions?”

“Not anger with Mast, nor sorrow, nor fear. There’s one white girl on the island—isn’t that explanation enough?”

“I hadn’t thought of it. It may be that you’re right. But that doesn’t affect the main thing—we have got to quit Faloo.”

“I agree with you that it doesn’t affect that. But still—do you play chess, Sir John?”

“Rarely, but I’m not your class, and I shouldn’t care for a game at the moment.”

“I had not meant to suggest it. And when you play what is the object of your attack?”

“The King, I suppose.”

“It is the same here—in Faloo—now. It is too simple to amount to a problem. We can win in one move.”

“I must hear this.”

“In the garden, I think. It’s not talk to be overheard.”

The two men went down the steps of the verandah together.