They let the matter drop and in the morning Wyndham went up the creek in the boat. He stated, rather vaguely, that he must arrange about some cargo and it was three or four days before he returned. Then Marston sailed with another load for a different port, and the French creole who shipped the goods to England was frankly surprised by their value. Indeed, his remarks indicated that the freight was worth much more than Marston had thought. The latter returned to the lagoon, satisfied in one way, but disturbed in another, and did not see much of his comrade. Wyndham often left the vessel, and although he did not tell Marston where he went, the loaded canoes that came down the creek hinted that he was usefully engaged. It was plain that the business was remarkably profitable, but Marston imagined Wyndham was overdoing the thing. He began to look worn and was sometimes moody, for a white man cannot strain brain and body hard in the tropic swamps. Marston got uneasy about him, but to some extent sympathized. They could not long enjoy their monopoly, rivals would soon be attracted to the lagoon, and Harry was justified in seizing his chance. He had not thought Harry greedy, but there was much at stake; Chisholm's approval, Harry's business standing, and his marriage to Flora. Marston could understand his comrade's running heavy risks for a girl like that. Still he was bothered because he did not know all the risks; it was possible that Harry was being driven far by his very natural ambition, but there were lengths to which one ought not to go. Another thing puzzled Marston. Don Felix had known the negroes and had, moreover, negro blood in his veins, but the trade had not extended until he was dead. It was strange the efforts of a white man and a stranger had led to the sudden extension. Harry had obviously qualities and knowledge that had not marked the other. But what were the qualities, and what did he know? Although Marston sometimes brooded over this, he saw no light. One evening he sat in the cabin and studied their trading accounts while Wyndham smoked. It was very hot and Marston's face and hands were wet with sweat and his eyes were dazzled. Flies hovered about the light and now and then a beetle struck the mosquito gauze in the skylight. Presently Marston put down his pen and frowned. "My brain's dull to-night," he said. "I ought to be satisfied with the results of our venture, but there are things I don't see quite plain. For example, we have got a lot of stuff for which we don't seem to have paid." "You are supercargo," Wyndham rejoined. "The accounts are yours and they're remarkably accurate. All we have got is properly charged against us." "That is so; I have used your figures. All the same, we haven't handed over much money." "The business is largely done by barter." "Of course," said Marston, with a touch of impatience. "We haven't delivered much goods against the account."