The habit of self-suppression was so strong upon him--acquired as a mere social duty--that it was only natural for him to think less of himself than of the expediency of the moment. The social discipline is as powerful an agent as that military discipline that makes a man throw away his own life for the good of the many. Oscard laughed, too, in a strangely staccato manner. “It is rather a sudden change,” observed Meredith; “and all brought about by your coming into that room at that particular moment--by accident.” “Not by accident,” corrected Oscard, speaking at last. “I was brought there and pushed into the room.” “By whom?” “By your father.” Jack Meredith sat upright. He drew his curved hand slowly down over his face--keen and delicate as was his mind--his eyes deep with thought. “The Guv'nor,” he said slowly. “The Guv'nor--by God!” He reflected for some seconds. “Tell me how he did it,” he said curtly. Oscard told him, rather incoherently, between the puffs. He did not attempt to make a story of it, but merely related the facts as they had happened to him. It is probable that to him the act was veiled which Jack saw quite distinctly. “That is the sort of thing,” was Meredith's comment when the story was finished, “that takes the conceit out of a fellow. I suppose I have more than my share. I suppose it is good for me to find that I am not so clever as I thought I was--that there are plenty of cleverer fellows about, and that one of them is an old man of seventy-nine. The worst of it is that he was right all along. He saw clearly where you and I were--damnably blind.” He rubbed his slim brown hands together, and looked across at his companion with a smile wherein the youthful self-confidence was less discernible than of yore. The smile faded as he looked at Oscard. He was thinking that he looked older and graver--more of a middle-aged man who has left something behind him in life--and the sight reminded him of the few grey hairs that were above his own temples. “Come,” he said more cheerfully, “tell me your news. Let us change the subject. Let us throw aside light dalliance and return to questions of money. More important--much more satisfactory. I suppose you have left Durnovo in charge? Has Joseph come home with you?” “Yes, Joseph has come home with me. Durnovo is dead.” “Dead!” Guy Oscard took his pipe from his lips. “He died at Msala of the sleeping sickness. He was a bigger blackguard than we thought. He was a slave-dealer and a slave-owner. Those forty men we picked up at Msala were slaves belonging to him.” “Ach!” It was a strange exclamation, as if he had burnt his fingers. “Who knows of this?” he asked immediately. The expediency of the moment had presented itself to his mind again. “Only ourselves,” returned Oscard. “You, Joseph, and I.” “That is all right, and the sooner we forget that the better. It would be a dangerous story to tell.”