“She doesn’t look just a girl,” muttered Renouard.  The other agreed.  Very likely not.  Had been playing the London hostess to tip-top people ever since she put her hair up, probably.

“I don’t expect to see any girlish bloom on her when I do have the privilege,” he continued.  “Those people are staying with the Dunster’s incog., in a manner, you understand—­something like royalties.  They don’t deceive anybody, but they want to be left to themselves.  We have even kept them out of the paper—­to oblige old Dunster.  But we shall put your arrival in—­our local celebrity.”

“Heavens!”

“Yes.  Mr. G. Renouard, the explorer, whose indomitable energy, etc., and who is now working for the prosperity of our country in another way on his Malata plantation . . .  And, by the by, how’s the silk plant—­flourishing?”

“Yes.”

“Did you bring any fibre?”

“Schooner-full.”

“I see.  To be transhipped to Liverpool for experimental manufacture, eh?  Eminent capitalists at home very much interested, aren’t they?”

“They are.”

A silence fell.  Then the Editor uttered slowly—­“You will be a rich man some day.”

Renouard’s face did not betray his opinion of that confident prophecy.  He didn’t say anything till his friend suggested in the same meditative voice —

“You ought to interest Moorsom in the affair too—­since Willie has let you in.”

“A philosopher!”

“I suppose he isn’t above making a bit of money.  And he may be clever at it for all you know.  I have a notion that he’s a fairly practical old cove. . . .  Anyhow,” and here the tone of the speaker took on a tinge of respect, “he has made philosophy pay.”

Renouard raised his eyes, repressed an impulse to jump up, and got out of the arm-chair slowly.  “It isn’t perhaps a bad idea,” he said.  “I’ll have to call there in any case.”

He wondered whether he had managed to keep his voice steady, its tone unconcerned enough; for his emotion was strong though it had nothing to do with the business aspect of this suggestion.  He moved in the room in vague preparation for departure, when he heard a soft laugh.  He spun about quickly with a frown, but the Editor was not laughing at him.  He was chuckling across the big desk at the wall:  a preliminary of some speech for which Renouard, recalled to himself, waited silent and mistrustful.

“No!  You would never guess!  No one would ever guess what these people are after.  Willie’s eyes bulged out when he came to me with the tale.”

“They always do,” remarked Renouard with disgust.  “He’s stupid.”

“He was startled.  And so was I after he told me.  It’s a search party.  They are out looking for a man.  Willie’s soft heart’s enlisted in the cause.”

Renouard repeated:  “Looking for a man.”

He sat down suddenly as if on purpose to stare.  “Did Willie come to you to borrow the lantern,” he asked sarcastically, and got up again for no apparent reason.