The next day he actually left the little West African coast town, turning his face northward with bad grace. Even at that distance, he feared Jack Meredith's half-veiled sarcasm. He knew that nothing could be hidden for long from the Englishman's suavely persistent inquiry and deduction. Besides, the natives were no longer safe. Meredith, with the quickness of a cultured linguist, had picked up enough of their language to understand them, while Joseph talked freely with them in that singular mixture of slang and vernacular which follows the redcoat all over the world. Durnovo had only been allowed to come down to the coast under a promise, gracefully veiled, but distinct enough, that he should only remain twenty-four hours in Loango. Jocelyn avoided seeing him again. She was forced to forego the opportunity of hearing much that she wanted to learn because Durnovo, the source of the desired knowledge, was unsafe. But the relief from the suspense of the last few months was in itself a consolation. All seemed to be going on well at the Plateau. Danger is always discounted at sight; and Jocelyn felt comparatively easy respecting the present welfare of Jack Meredith, living as she did on the edge of danger. Four days later she was riding through the native town of Loango, accompanied by a lady-friend, when she met Victor Durnovo. The sight of him gave her a distinct shock. She knew that he had left Loango three days before with all his men. There was no doubt about that. Moreover, his air was distinctly furtive--almost scared. It was evident that the chance meeting was as undesired by him as it was surprising to her. “I thought you had left,” she said shortly, pulling up her horse with undeniable decision. “Yes... but I have come back--for--for more men.” She knew he was lying, and he felt that she knew. “Indeed!” she said. “You are not a good starter.” She turned her horse's head, nodded to her friend, bowed coldly to Durnovo, and trotted towards home. When she had reached the corner of the rambling, ill-paved street, she touched her horse. The animal responded. She broke into a gentle canter, which made the little children cease their play and stare. In the forest she applied the spurs, and beneath the whispering trees, over the silent sand, the girl galloped home as fast as her horse could lay legs to the ground. Jocelyn Gordon was one of those women who rise slowly to the occasion, and the limit of their power seems at times to be only defined by the greatness of the need. CHAPTER XXIII. MERCURY So cowards never use their might But against such that will not fight. On nearing the bungalow, Jocelyn turned aside into the forest where a little colony of huts nestled in a hollow of the sand-dunes. “Nala,” she cried, “the paddle-maker. Ask him to come to me.” She spoke in the dialect of the coast to some women who sat together before one of the huts. “Nala--yes,” they answered. And they raised their strident voices.