the interview. And now he found
himself returning somewhat disconsolately to the wretched hotel in
Loango--dismissed--sent back.

The next day he actually left the little West African coast town,
turning his face northward with bad grace. Even at that distance, he
feared Jack Meredith's half-veiled sarcasm. He knew that nothing could
be hidden for long from the Englishman's suavely persistent inquiry and
deduction. Besides, the natives were no longer safe. Meredith, with the
quickness of a cultured linguist, had picked up enough of their language
to understand them, while Joseph talked freely with them in that
singular mixture of slang and vernacular which follows the redcoat all
over the world. Durnovo had only been allowed to come down to the coast
under a promise, gracefully veiled, but distinct enough, that he should
only remain twenty-four hours in Loango.

Jocelyn avoided seeing him again. She was forced to forego the
opportunity of hearing much that she wanted to learn because Durnovo,
the source of the desired knowledge, was unsafe. But the relief from the
suspense of the last few months was in itself a consolation. All seemed
to be going on well at the Plateau. Danger is always discounted at
sight; and Jocelyn felt comparatively easy respecting the present
welfare of Jack Meredith, living as she did on the edge of danger.

Four days later she was riding through the native town of Loango,
accompanied by a lady-friend, when she met Victor Durnovo. The sight of
him gave her a distinct shock. She knew that he had left Loango three
days before with all his men. There was no doubt about that. Moreover,
his air was distinctly furtive--almost scared. It was evident that the
chance meeting was as undesired by him as it was surprising to her.

"I thought you had left," she said shortly, pulling up her horse with
undeniable decision.

"Yes... but I have come back--for--for more men."

She knew he was lying, and he felt that she knew.

"Indeed!" she said. "You are not a good starter."

She turned her horse's head, nodded to her friend, bowed coldly to
Durnovo, and trotted towards home. When she had reached the corner
of the rambling, ill-paved street, she touched her horse. The animal
responded. She broke into a gentle canter, which made the little
children cease their play and stare. In the forest she applied the
spurs, and beneath the whispering trees, over the silent sand, the girl
galloped home as fast as her