“Yes.” Guy paused, and made a huge effort, finally conquering that taciturnity which was almost an affliction to him. “The reason I gave the other night to you and that chap Durnovo was honest enough, but I have another. I want to lie low for a few months, but I also want to make money. I'm as good as engaged to be married, and I find that I am not so well off as I thought I was. People told me that I should have three thousand a year when the governor died, but I find that people know less of my affairs than I thought.” “They invariably do,” put in Jack encouragingly. “It is barely two thousand, and--and she has been brought up to something better than that.” “Um! they mostly are. Mine has been brought up to something better than that too. That is the worst of it.” Jack Meredith leant back in his folding chair, and gazed practically up into the heavens. “Of course,” Guy went on, doggedly expansive now that he had once plunged, “two thousand a year sounds pretty good, and it is not bad to start upon. But there is no chance of its increasing; in fact, the lawyer fellows say it may diminish. I know of no other way to make money--had no sort of training for it. I'm not of a commercial turn of mind. Fellows go into the City and brew beer or float companies, whatever that may be.” “It means they sink other people's funds,” explained Jack. “Yes, I suppose it does. The guv'nor, y' know, never taught me how to make a livelihood; wouldn't let me be a soldier; sent me to college, and all that; wanted me to be a litterateur. Now I'm not literary.” “No, I shouldn't think you were.” “Remains Africa. I am not a clever chap, like you, Meredith.” “For which you may thank a gracious Providence,” interposed Jack. “Chaps like me are what some people call 'fools' in their uncouth way.” “But I know a little about Africa, and I know something about Durnovo. That man has got a mania, and it is called Simiacine. He is quite straight upon that point, whatever he may be upon others. He knows this country, and he is not making any mistake about the Simiacine, whatever--” “His powers of sick-nursing may be,” suggested Jack. “Yes, that's it. We'll put it that way if you like.” “Thanks, I do prefer it. Any fool could call a spade a spade. The natural ambition would be to find something more flowery and yet equally descriptive.” Guy Oscard subsided into a monosyllabic sound. “I believe implicitly in this scheme,” he went on, after a pause. “It is a certain fact that the men who can supply pure Simiacine have only to name their price for it. They will make a fortune, and I believe that Durnovo knows where it is growing in quantities.”