He departed, but not alone.  With him went his familiar spirit, his guardian angel, his lady, his step-sister—­a dusky dame of barn-like proportions.  Arrived at Nepenthe they rented a small villa, rather out of the way, which they called the Residency.  The change of climate did them good.  So did the appointment.  He was now a person of consequence—­the sole representative of a Foreign Power on the island.  His official rank procured him not only dignity and a new start in life but, what was still more urgent, credit.  It brought him into contact with the local authorities—­with the red-haired rachitic judge, for instance, between whom and Mr. Parker there sprang up an intimacy which was viewed with vague forebodings.  The lady, being a Catholic—­Mr. Parker, too, was suspected of Roman proclivities—­was confessed by the parish priest.  That was a point gained; the parroco being above suspicioin, among foreigners at least.  She stayed mostly indoors, inventing scandals about people and writing voluminous letters to warn new-comers of the appalling immorality of the place.

To outward appearance the Commissioner and his lady agreed like a brace of turtle-doves.  He, too, was a moral and social reformer.  But men must live.  The refined social status attached to Mr. Parker’s honorary post producing nothing tangible in the way of ready cash, he began to cast about for some means of livelihood.  They wre getting into debt once more.  Something must be done, he declared.

His portly presence, flushed countenance, briar pipe, knickerbockers and white spats had already become a familiar object in the streets of the town, when a terrible uproar at the Club—­one of those periodical, approximately monthly, rows at which the police, who hated meddling with foreigners, were reluctantly compelled to intervene—­suggested to her that something might be done in that direction.  She got him elected President for that year, President for the next, the next, and the next; in spite of the fact that, according to the rules, a new President had to be elected every year.  Who cared about rules?  He was the Commissioner!  People were only too glad to have him there.  In fact, like Napoleon, he became a sort of Dictator.

He was now in his element.  There were emoluments to be picked up here—­percentages, perquisites, and profits of all kinds.  He made a little arrangement with the Club laundry-woman to take in his own washing as well, gratis.  Under the threat of placing the Club custom elsewhere he concluded a number of treaties, each containing a secret clause which referred to fifteen per cent profit for himself, with the grocer who supplied provisions; and with other tradespeople dealing in stationery, soap, crockery (broken crockery was a heavy item in the accounts) and such—­like Club necessaries.  Next, he took the landlord in hand.  He would clear out, by God, and take more respectable premises if the rent were not reduced