“Then, Rajah Laut,” whispered Jaffir, “you can make all safe by giving them back.”

“Can I do that?” were the words breathed out through Lingard’s lips to the faithful follower of Hassim and Immada.

“Can you do anything else?” was the whispered retort of Jaffir the messenger accustomed to speak frankly to the great of the earth.  “You are a white man and you can have only one word.  And now I go.”

A small, rough dug-out belonging to the Emma had been brought round to the ladder.  A shadowy calash hovering respectfully in the darkness of the deck had already cleared his throat twice in a warning manner.

“Yes, Jaffir, go,” said Lingard, “and be my friend.”

“I am the friend of a great prince,” said the other, sturdily.  “But you, Rajah Laut, were even greater.  And great you will remain while you are with us, people of this sea and of this land.  But what becomes of the strength of your arms before your own white people?  Where does it go to, I say?  Well, then, we must trust in the strength of your heart.”

“I hope that will never fail,” said Lingard, and Jaffir emitted a grunt of satisfaction.  “But God alone sees into men’s hearts.”

“Yes.  Our refuge is with Allah,” assented Jaffir, who had acquired the habit of pious turns of speech in the frequentation of professedly religious men, of whom there were many in Belarab’s stockade.  As a matter of fact, he reposed all his trust in Lingard who had with him the prestige of a providential man sent at the hour of need by heaven itself.  He waited a while, then:  “What is the message I am to take?” he asked.

“Tell the whole tale to the Rajah Hassim,” said Lingard.  “And tell him to make his way here with the lady his sister secretly and with speed.  The time of great trouble has come.  Let us, at least, be together.”

“Right!  Right!” Jaffir approved, heartily.  “To die alone under the weight of one’s enemies is a dreadful fate.”

He stepped back out of the sheen of the lamp by which they had been talking and making his way down into the small canoe he took up a paddle and without a splash vanished on the dark lagoon.

It was then that Mrs. Travers and d’Alcacer heard Lingard call aloud for Jorgenson.  Instantly the familiar shadow stood at Lingard’s elbow and listened in detached silence.  Only at the end of the tale it marvelled audibly:  “Here’s a mess for you if you like.”  But really nothing in the world could astonish or startle old Jorgenson.  He turned away muttering in his moustache.  Lingard remained with his chin in his hand and Jaffir’s last words took gradual possession of his mind.  Then brusquely he picked up the lamp and went to seek Mrs. Travers.  He went to seek her because he actually needed her bodily presence, the sound of her voice, the dark, clear glance of her eyes.  She could do nothing for him.  On his way he became aware that Jorgenson had turned out the few Malays