“I shall make a very poor display on the platform, I fear,” said he. “I remember the first African lecture at which I was present. The explorer appeared on the platform surrounded by his elephant rifles, his lions' skins, his elephants' tusks, his rhinoceros' skulls, his countless antlers. He made an imposing show--very different from what I shall make with my half-dozen arrows and my few seeds. I'm afraid that the people will take me for a fraud. The idea of a man going to Central Africa, and returning after a nine years' residence, with nothing better than these, will seem a little foolish in many people's eyes.” Clare was indignant at the suggestion that any one would venture to underrate the achievements of an explorer who had come through the most terrible parts of Africa with no arms that would give him an advantage over the natives. And as for the trophies, what were all the discoveries of all the explorers in comparison with the seeds of the linen plant, she asked. “I knew that I could trust to you to say something encouraging to me,” cried Claude. “That is why I could not go up to London without first coming to bid you good-bye, and to get you to wish me good luck.” “Good luck--good luck--good luck!” said Clare, as he wrapped up his case of arrows. “Of course, we wish you all the good luck in the world; the fact being that our fortunes are bound up with yours. Was it not Agnes and I who insisted on your promising to write that book?” “I am quite content that you should look on our fortunes as bound up together,” said he, slowly and with curious emphasis. “Our fortunes are bound up together”--he had taken her hand, and continued holding it while he was speaking. “Our fortunes--what is my fortune must be yours.” “That is quite true, for am not I your illustrator?” cried Clare. “The book will be a success, and no matter how bad the pictures may be, they will be part of a successful book.” He looked at her for a few moments and then said good-bye to her and Agnes. Agnes had not opened her lips throughout the interview. She could not help thinking, as she watched him go down the drive, of the marvellous change that had come over him since the day of his return to Brackenshire--the day when he had paid her that visit during which he had been able to talk of nothing except the man who had murdered his brother. A few weeks had been sufficient to awaken the ambition which she had thought was dead. It seemed to her that he had just left the room, saying the very words that he had spoken years before: “I will make a name worthy of your acceptance.”