Renouard, silent, thought that it was likely enough. His profound distaste for this conversation was betrayed by an air of weariness darkening his energetic sun-tanned features, and by the augmented dreaminess of his eyes. The Editor noted it as a further proof of that immoral detachment from mankind, of that callousness of sentiment fostered by the unhealthy conditions of solitude—according to his own favourite theory. Aloud he observed that as long as a man had not given up correspondence he could not be looked upon as lost. Fugitive criminals had been tracked in that way by justice, he reminded his friend; then suddenly changed the bearing of the subject somewhat by asking if Renouard had heard from his people lately, and if every member of his large tribe was well and happy. “Yes, thanks.” The tone was curt, as if repelling a liberty. Renouard did not like being asked about his people, for whom he had a profound and remorseful affection. He had not seen a single human being to whom he was related, for many years, and he was extremely different from them all. On the very morning of his arrival from his island he had gone to a set of pigeon-holes in Willie Dunster’s outer office and had taken out from a compartment labelled “Malata” a very small accumulation of envelopes, a few addressed to himself, and one addressed to his assistant, all to the care of the firm, W. Dunster and Co. As opportunity offered, the firm used to send them on to Malata either by a man-of-war schooner going on a cruise, or by some trading craft proceeding that way. But for the last four months there had been no opportunity. “You going to stay here some time?” asked the Editor, after a longish silence. Renouard, perfunctorily, did see no reason why he should make a long stay. “For health, for your mental health, my boy,” rejoined the newspaper man. “To get used to human faces so that they don’t hit you in the eye so hard when you walk about the streets. To get friendly with your kind. I suppose that assistant of yours can be trusted to look after things?” “There’s the half-caste too. The Portuguese. He knows what’s to be done.” “Aha!” The Editor looked sharply at his friend. “What’s his name?” “Who’s name?” “The assistant’s you picked up on the sly behind my back.” Renouard made a slight movement of impatience. “I met him unexpectedly one evening. I thought he would do as well as another. He had come from up country and didn’t seem happy in a town. He told me his name was Walter. I did not ask him for proofs, you know.” “I don’t think you get on very well with him.” “Why? What makes you think so.” “I don’t know. Something reluctant in your manner when he’s in question.” “Really. My manner! I don’t think he’s a great subject for conversation, perhaps. Why not drop him?” “Of course! You wouldn’t confess to a mistake. Not you. Nevertheless I have my suspicions about it.”