“You are a heaven-born discoverer and a first-rate manager. . .  He’s right.  It’s the only way.  You can’t resist the claim of sentiment, and you must even risk the voyage to Malata. . . " Renouard’s voice sank.  “A lonely spot,” he added, and fell into thought under all these eyes converging on him in the sudden silence.  His slow glance passed over all the faces in succession, remaining arrested on Professor Moorsom, stony eyed, a smouldering cigar in his fingers, and with his sister standing by his side.

“I shall be infinitely gratified if you consent to come.  But, of course, you will.  We shall sail to-morrow evening then.  And now let me leave you to your happiness.”

He bowed, very grave, pointed suddenly his finger at Willie who was swaying about with a sleepy frown. . . .  “Look at him.  He’s overcome with happiness.  You had better put him to bed . . . " and disappeared while every head on the terrace was turned to Willie with varied expressions.

Renouard ran through the house.  Avoiding the carriage road he fled down the steep short cut to the shore, where his gig was waiting.  At his loud shout the sleeping Kanakas jumped up.  He leaped in.  “Shove off.  Give way!” and the gig darted through the water.  “Give way!  Give way!” She flew past the wool-clippers sleeping at their anchors each with the open unwinking eye of the lamp in the rigging; she flew past the flagship of the Pacific squadron, a great mass all dark and silent, heavy with the slumbers of five hundred men, and where the invisible sentries heard his urgent “Give way!  Give way!” in the night.  The Kanakas, panting, rose off the thwarts at every stroke.  Nothing could be fast enough for him!  And he ran up the side of his schooner shaking the ladder noisily with his rush.

On deck he stumbled and stood still.

Wherefore this haste?  To what end, since he knew well before he started that he had a pursuer from whom there was no escape.

As his foot touched the deck his will, his purpose he had been hurrying to save, died out within.  It had been nothing less than getting the schooner under-way, letting her vanish silently in the night from amongst these sleeping ships.  And now he was certain he could not do it.  It was impossible!  And he reflected that whether he lived or died such an act would lay him under a dark suspicion from which he shrank.  No, there was nothing to be done.

He went down into the cabin and, before even unbuttoning his overcoat, took out of the drawer the letter addressed to his assistant; that letter which he had found in the pigeon-hole labelled “Malata” in young Dunster’s outer office, where it had been waiting for three months some occasion for being forwarded.  From the moment of dropping it in the drawer he had utterly forgotten its existence—­till now, when the man’s name had come out so clamorously.  He glanced at the common envelope, noted the shaky