"The rebellion must be stopped," Marston agreed. "In a way, I don't care who rules the country; I expect nobody would rule it well. All the same, I'm not going to see white traders murdered and the swamp-belt given up to a cruel brute who would rule it on the African plan." "The Bat can't start his rebellion without supplies, which we don't mean to give him," Wyndham said dryly. "Things would be easier if he were not my uncle." Marston hesitated. "This bothers me most. D'you think Larrinaga knows?" "I think not. Peters knows, however, and when he finds out where we've gone I expect we'll soon have him on our track. This means we must reckon on three antagonists." "Three?" said Marston with a puzzled look. Wyndham nodded. "I expect we'll find Rupert Wyndham the worst. However, I see one advantage; none of the three knows our plans and all theirs clash. We are not up against a combine." "We haven't a plan," Marston objected. "Oh, well," said Wyndham. "Since that is so we must trust our luck." He went off and Marston smoked a cigarette and mused. He had wanted to be open and honest, but since they could not use force, he admitted reluctantly that they must intrigue. The job did not look as simple as he had thought in England; it was getting obvious that Rupert Wyndham would be their worst antagonist. The fellow was, so to speak, no longer a white man; he was a savage with a lust for cruelty and power, but he had a white man's intelligence. To imagine he could be persuaded to give up his ambitious plans was ridiculous; he had no moral sense to which one could appeal. All the same, it was unthinkable that they should let him be captured by Larrinaga and shot. Marston could see no light and presently threw away his cigarette and got up. The job was awkward, but he must not own he was beaten before he had begun. He would go on and trust his luck. In the meantime, he had promised to play cards with some passengers and he went to the smoking-room. They played until the electric light went out, when Marston found he had lost five pounds. It did not look as if his luck was very good. In the morning, the steamer sailed and when she stopped again as dark fell a boat was hoisted out. High land loomed, vague and blue, against the sunset, drifting mist hid the beach, and not far off two masts and a dark hull cut against the hazy background. As he went to the gangway Marston looked back with a curious feeling of regret. The steamer stood for much that he liked and knew, and he had enjoyed the society of her officers. Their temperament was sane and practical. They did not seek strange adventures; theirs was a healthful struggle against the obvious dangers of the sea.