Since that afternoon when the gentlemen, as Lingard called them, had been brought on board, Mrs. Travers and Lingard had not exchanged one significant word.

When Lingard had decided to proceed by way of negotiation she had asked him on what he based his hope of success; and he had answered her:  “On my luck.”  What he really depended on was his prestige; but even if he had been aware of such a word he would not have used it, since it would have sounded like a boast.  And, besides, he did really believe in his luck.  Nobody, either white or brown, had ever doubted his word and that, of course, gave him great assurance in entering upon the negotiation.  But the ultimate issue of it would be always a matter of luck.  He said so distinctly to Mrs. Travers at the moment of taking leave of her, with Jorgenson already waiting for him in the boat that was to take them across the lagoon to Belarab’s stockade.

Startled by his decision (for it had come suddenly clinched by the words “I believe I can do it"), Mrs. Travers had dropped her hand into his strong open palm on which an expert in palmistry could have distinguished other lines than the line of luck.  Lingard’s hand closed on hers with a gentle pressure.  She looked at him, speechless.  He waited for a moment, then in an unconsciously tender voice he said:  “Well, wish me luck then.”

She remained silent.  And he still holding her hand looked surprised at her hesitation.  It seemed to her that she could not let him go, and she didn’t know what to say till it occurred to her to make use of the power she knew she had over him.  She would try it again.  “I am coming with you,” she declared with decision.  “You don’t suppose I could remain here in suspense for hours, perhaps.”

He dropped her hand suddenly as if it had burnt him—­“Oh, yes, of course,” he mumbled with an air of confusion.  One of the men over there was her husband!  And nothing less could be expected from such a woman.  He had really nothing to say but she thought he hesitated.—­“Do you think my presence would spoil everything?  I assure you I am a lucky person, too, in a way. . . .  As lucky as you, at least,” she had added in a murmur and with a smile which provoked his responsive mutter—­“Oh, yes, we are a lucky pair of people.”—­“I count myself lucky in having found a man like you to fight my—­our battles,” she said, warmly.  “Suppose you had not existed? . . . .  You must let me come with you!” For the second time before her expressed wish to stand by his side he bowed his head.  After all, if things came to the worst, she would be as safe between him and Jorgenson as left alone on board the Emma with a few Malay spearmen for all defence.  For a moment Lingard thought of picking up the pistols he had taken out of his belt preparatory to joining Jorgenson in the boat, thinking it would be better to go to a big talk completely unarmed.  They were lying on the rail but he didn’t pick them up.  Four shots