In the space of a single day every copy vanished from the island—­every copy save one, which had found its way into Mr. Eames’ collection.  He meant to keep that copy.  He would have died sooner than yield it up.  When the clerical deputation arrived at his villa with soft words and promises of more solid lucre, he professed the uttermost amazement at their quest.  Mr. Eames, the soul of honesty, the scorner of all subterfuge and crooked dealing, put on a new character.  He lied like a trooper.  He lied better than a trooper; that is to say, not only forcefully but convincingly.  He lied as only a lover of bibliographical curios can lie, in defence of his treasure.  He thanked them for their courteous visit and bade them keep their gold.  He professed himself a poor recluse innocent of the world’s ways and undesirous of riches, adding, as a mere afterthought, that he had not so much as heard of the noxious broadsheet in question.  There must be some mistake.  Society people might know something about it; that gentleman who called himself a bishop for example, that sallow gentleman from Africa, who spent so much of his time in social gaieties—­he might very likely have received a copy.  If they wished, he would gladly make enquiries, discreet enquiries, about the matter.

It was Mr. Eames’ second lapse from grace.  Gentlemen do not tell falsehoods.  He did not want to be a gentleman just then.  He wanted that pamphlet.

The reverend visitors withdrew convinced, amid showers of compliments and apologies.  After seeing them safely off the premises and even, for greater security, half-way down the hill, Mr. Eames returned, drew out the jewel from where it lay in a secret hiding-place among others of its kind, and hugged it to his heart.  He purposed to reproduce the pamphlet in EXTENSO, in that particular appendix to his edition of Perrelli’s antiquities which dealt with “Contemporary Social History.” . . .

Mr. Heard knew nothing of all this as, jostled among the crowd, he watched the procession on that bright morning.  It reminded him of the feast of Saint Dodekanus which he had witnessed twelve days earlier; it was even more extravagant.  But he now felt himself seasoned to this kind of display.  Besides, he had seen funnier things in Africa; though not much funnier.  Once more his thoughts went back to those laughing black people, he remembered all of them—­the Wabitembes, the M’tezo, the Kizibubi—­what a set of jovial ruffians!  How they would have enjoyed this sunshiny nonsense.  And the Bulangas.  Really, those Bulangas—­

There was a light touch on his shoulder.  He turned, and found himself face to face with Mrs. Meadows.  She was smiling and looking ever so happy.

“Well, Tommy!” she said.  “You don’t seem to be very pleased to see me.  Why haven’t you come to tea lately?  And why are you looking so glum?  He’s got his leave, after all.  I had a cable two days ago.  He’ll pick me up here in a fortnight or three weeks.  Aren’t you glad you needn’t escort me to England?”