Loango.

"I wonder," he muttered, as he walked up from the beach to his office
that same afternoon--"I wonder if Durnovo is among them?"

And he was conscious of a ray of hope in his mind. He was a kind-hearted
man, in his way, this Maurice Gordon of Loango; but he could not
disguise from himself the simple fact that the death of Victor Durnovo
would be a distinct convenience and a most desirable relief. Even the
best of us--that is to say, the present writer and his reader--have
these inconvenient little feelings. There are people who have done us no
particular injury, to whom we wish no particular harm, but we feel that
it would be very expedient and considerate of them to die.

Thinking these thoughts, Maurice Gordon arrived at the factory and went
straight to his own office, where he found the object of them--Victor
Durnovo--sitting in consumption of the office sherry.

Gordon saw at once that the rumour was true. There was a hunted
unwholesome look in Durnovo's eyes. He looked shaken, and failed to
convey a suggestion of personal dignity.

"Hulloa!" exclaimed the proprietor of the decanter. "You look a bit
chippy. I have been told there is small-pox up at Msala."

"So have I. I've just heard it from Meredith."

"Just heard it--is Meredith down here too?"

"Yes, and the fool wants to go back to-night. I have to meet him on the
beach at four o'clock."

Maurice Gordon sat down, poured out for himself a glass of sherry, and
drank it thoughtfully.

"Do you know, Durnovo," he said emphatically, "I have my doubts about
Meredith being a fool."

"Indeed!" with a derisive laugh.

"Yes."

Maurice Gordon looked over his shoulder to see that the door was shut.

"You'll have to be very careful," he said. "The least slip might let it
all out. Meredith has a quiet way of looking at one which disquiets me.
He might find out."

"Not he," replied Durnovo confidently, "especially if we succeed; and we
shall succeed--by God we shall!"

Maurice Gordon made a little movement of the shoulders, as indicating a
certain uneasiness, but he said nothing.

There was a pause of considerable duration, at the end of which Durnovo
produced a paper from his pocket and threw it down.

"That's good business," he said.

"Two thousand tusks," murmured Maurice Gordon. "Yes, that's good.
Through Akmed, I suppose?"

"Yes. We can outdo these Arabs at their own trade."

An evil smile lighted up Durnovo's sallow face. When he smile