“There,” said the scribe, with a smile of intense satisfaction. “That will give the old 'un beans. Not that I don't respect him--oh no.” He paused, and gazed thoughtfully at the evening star. “Strange thing--life,” he muttered, “uncommon strange. Perhaps the old 'un is right; there's no knowin'. The ways o' Providence ARE mysterious--onnecessarily mysterious to my thinkin'.” And he shook his head at the evening star, as if he was not quite pleased with it. With a feeling of considerable satisfaction, Joseph approached the Bungalow at Loango three days later. The short sea voyage had somewhat revived Meredith, who had been desirous of walking up from the beach, but after a short attempt had been compelled to enter the spring cart which Joseph had secured. Joseph walked by the side of this cart with an erect carriage, and a suppressed importance suggestive of ambulance duty in the old days. As the somewhat melancholy cortege approached the house, Meredith drew back the dusky brown holland curtain and looked anxiously out. Nor were Joseph's eyes devoid of expectation. He thought that Jocelyn would presently emerge from the flower-hung trellis of the verandah; and he had rehearsed over and over again a neat, respectful speech, explanatory of his action in bringing a sick man to the house. But the hanging fronds of flowers and leaf remained motionless, and the cart drove, unchallenged, round to the principal door. A black servant--a stranger--held the handle, and stood back invitingly. Supported by Joseph's arm, Jack Meredith entered. The servant threw open the drawing-room door; they passed in. The room was empty. On the table lay two letters, one addressed to Guy Oscard, the other to Jack Meredith. Meredith felt suddenly how weak he was, and sat wearily down on the sofa. “Give me that letter,” he said. Joseph looked at him keenly. There was something forlorn and cold about the room--about the whole house--with the silent, smiling, black servants and the shaded windows. Joseph handed the letter as desired, and then, with quick practised hands, he poured a small quantity of brandy into the cup of his flask. “Drink this first, sir,” he said. Jack Meredith fumbled rather feebly at the letter. It was distinctly an effort to him to tear the paper. “MY DEAR MEREDITH” (he read),--“Just a line to tell you that the Bungalow and its contents are at your service. Jocelyn and I are off home for two months' change of air. I have been a bit seedy. I leave this at the Bungalow, and we shall feel hurt if you do not make the house your home whenever you happen to come down to Loango. I have left a similar note for Oscard, in whose expedition to your relief I have all faith.--Yours ever, “MAURICE GORDON.” “Here,” said Meredith to his servant, “you may as well read it for yourself.”