things that would be easy for you to arrange and are so difficult for me. But if I might venture to give one little piece of advice, it is this—always take a defeat smiling and a triumph seriously. Ah, you must take that as a joke. I cannot tell you anything you do not know.”

“It’s true enough that to be a solicitor one must pass very severe tests,” said Bassett. “And every day of practice in a good firm means a lesson in knowledge of the world.” He was quite unused to flattery, and was ready to take a good deal of it.

“My friend,” said the King, “you do not drink my cognac, and it is too good to miss. Alone I would not have got it. It comes to me by favour of the padre.”

Bassett, who knew his physiological limitations, hesitated, filled his glass and sipped. He expressed an opinion that the French missionaries knew how to take care of themselves.

“Yes,” Bassett continued. “As a solicitor I met with all kinds of men. I can generally make an estimate. I have my doubts about Dr Soames Pryce. I have raced lizards against him; doctors know drugs and can use them.”

The suggestion was too preposterous, and the King’s laughter was both hearty and natural. “But I think not. It is unlikely,” he said. “The doctor is not in any want of money, and he does not risk his position here with all of you for a little piece of ten shillings. I do not know much, and so I have to guess a good deal. I should guess that it was no question of money that sent Dr Soames Pryce to Faloo.”

King Smith watched his guest with a critical eye. It was not generally advisable to speak of the past in Faloo. Lord Charles Baringstoke was quite shameless, and the Rev. Cyril Mast was occasionally maudlin, and these two had chattered about themselves, but members of the Exiles’ Club were mostly discreet and reserved as to their personal histories.

“Wasn’t it money?” said Bassett, peevishly. “No. Perhaps not. Perhaps it was something worse—something which could not be misunderstood.”

“Then these money troubles in your country—the sort of troubles that have decided some of you to leave it—may possibly be only due to misunderstanding.”

“That and other things. You see, you don’t know about these matters.”

“No,” said the King, regretfully, “I do not know that great world in which you moved.”

“Well, see here,” said Bassett a little excitedly. “Suppose there is a sum of money—a hundred pounds or a thousand, any sum you like. You know as a business man that if you were asked for that sum one day you might be unable to find it—though you would be able to get it if you were given time.”

“Yes, I see that.”

“I had money belonging to clients—ladies of course. They were very impatient, and consulted another solicitor, a jealous rival. The money was being employed by me in a way that would ultimately, if I had been left alone, have benefited those clients. It was not immediately available, and delicate financial operations do not admit of clumsy interference. The result was disastrous. I—I gave up and came here.”

“It is wonderful that you knew of this little island.”

“I had heard of it—two men that I knew had already gone out.”

“Your clients—they were not all ladies?” said the King, as he refilled Bassett’s glass “I suppose traders like myself consulted you—clergymen too, perhaps.”

“There are no traders like you in England,” said Bassett. “But men of the highest business standing consulted me. Lechworthy now—I’ve lunched with him often. A Cabinet Minister was one of my clients. I tell you, I’d some of the very top. I daresay you never heard of the great libel action against the Daily Message—well, I acted for the Message.”

King Smith had listened very attentively. “That must make a difference,” he said.

“How?”

“Men like that would be superior to a vulgar misunderstanding. They would see, as I do, that it was a mistake—that you had acted for the best—that your probity was not in question. It must be pleasant for you here when the mail comes in—friendly letters from Mr Lechworthy, who manufactures the leather goods—letters still showing his gratitude from the editor of the Daily Message, or perhaps—”

“You don’t know anything, my boy,” said Bassett. He was slightly flushed, his voice was raised, and his manner was more familiar. “The editor of the Daily Message indeed! That case cost his proprietor close on fifty thousand. You make me laugh. No, when a man in England goes under, nobody goes down to look for him. Lechworthy, with all his piety, was as hot as anyone against me. The only letters I get are from my old mother, and they’re no use.”

It was not then through Mr Bassett’s personal connections that King Smith would be able to get into touch with the right people for the scheme which he had in view. Cyril Mast and Lord Charles had also boasted an influential acquaintance, and in their case, too, the thread had been snapped. The King was not disappointed. He had found out what he wished to know, and he had no further use at the moment for Mr Bassett.

The King rose. “I must go back to my work,” he said. “Stay here and drink if you like.”

But Bassett also rose. “I have drunk enough,” he said as he peered at his face in a scrap of mirror on the wall. He wondered vaguely if he had been talking too much. He tried to think of something complimentary to say. “I—I respect the way you work,” was his effort; and then certain fears recurred to his mind. “I say, is it all right about the native women?”

“No,” said the King, “it is not all right. But there will be no serious trouble yet, unless further cause is given. I have been busy about it this morning.”

“Awfully good of you,” said Bassett. “You’re a sort of protection to the white men here. I say, you ought to have been elected, you know.”

“Remember that there may come a time when I cannot protect. The natives here are not much spoiled. This is not Papeete.”

“That’s what I’m always saying to our chaps.”

“Say it also to yourself, my friend. I had a man here this morning who wished to kill you. No, he will not do it. Now I must go.”

It was a very sobered Bassett that skulked back along the beach to the club-house. He jumped perceptibly when a land-crab rattled an old meat-tin on the stones. At the club it seemed to him that most of the men were sulky and bad-tempered. Some slept on the verandah. The German and Lord Charles Baringstoke bent over an interminable game of chess. Lord Charles looked up as Bassett passed.

“I say, Mr damned Bassett,” said Lord Charles, “why didn’t you elect Smith?”

“Oh, go to the devil!” said Bassett, irritably, and went on to his own room. He was angry with himself, and a man in that case is always angry with the rest of the world.

King Smith went on with his work, assiduously as a London clerk under the eye of the senior partner. It was near sunset when he came out on to the beach.

Down by the water’s edge stood the Rev. Cyril Mast. He was quite a young man, and his face was that of a dissipated boy. At present he was looking out through glasses that he could not hold quite steady.

“You look at nothing,” laughed Smith.

“See for yourself,” said Mast, in a musical, resonant voice. “Your schooner will be in before you expected her.”