Oscard looked slightly surprised. That did not sound like Maurice Gordon. “I believe you are almost capable of going yourself,” said the big man with a slow smile. “If I had been a man I should have been half-way there by this time.” “Where is Durnovo?” he asked suddenly. “I believe he is in Loango. He has not been to this house for more than a fortnight; but Maurice has heard that he is still somewhere in Loango.” Jocelyn paused. There was an expression on Guy Oscard's face which she rather liked, while it alarmed her. “It is not likely,” she went on, “that he will come here. I--I rather lost my temper with him, and said things which I imagine hurt his feelings.” Oscard nodded gravely. “I'm rather afraid of doing that myself,” he said; “only it will not be his feelings.” “I do not think,” she replied, “that it would be at all expedient to say or do anything at present. He must go with you to the Plateau. Afterwards--perhaps.” Oscard laughed quietly. “Ah,” he said, “that sounds like one of Meredith's propositions. But he does not mean it any more than you do.” “I do mean it,” replied Jocelyn quietly. There is no hatred so complete, so merciless, as the hatred of a woman for one who has wronged the man she loves. At such times women do not pause to give fair play. They make no allowance. Jocelyn Gordon found a sort of fearful joy in the anger of this self-contained Englishman. It was an unfathomed mine of possible punishment over which she could in thought hold Victor Durnovo. “Nothing,” she went on, “could be too mean--nothing could be mean enough--to mete out to him in payment of his own treachery and cowardice.” She went to a drawer in her writing-table and took from it an almanac. “The letter you have in your hand,” she said, “was handed to Mr. Durnovo exactly a month ago by the woman at Msala. From that time to this he has done nothing. He has simply abandoned Mr. Meredith.” “He is in Loango?” inquired Oscard, with a premonitory sense of enjoyment in his voice. “Yes.” “Does he know that you have sent for me?” “No,” replied Jocelyn. Guy Oscard smiled. “I think I will go and look for him,” he said. At dusk that same evening there was a singular incident in the bar-room of the only hotel in Loango. Victor Durnovo was there, surrounded by a few friends of antecedents and blood similar to his own. They were having a convivial time of it, and the consumption of whisky was greater than might be deemed discreet in such a climate as that of Loango. Durnovo was in the act of raising his glass to his lips when the open doorway was darkened, and Guy Oscard stood before him. The half-breed's jaw dropped; the glass was set down again rather unsteadily on the zinc-covered counter. “I want you,” said Oscard. There was a little pause, an ominous silence, and Victor Durnovo slowly followed Oscard out of the room, leaving that ominous silence behind.