s the hatred of a woman for one who has wronged the man
she loves. At such times women do not pause to give fair play. They make
no allowance.

Jocelyn Gordon found a sort of fearful joy in the anger of this
self-contained Englishman. It was an unfathomed mine of possible
punishment over which she could in thought hold Victor Durnovo.

"Nothing," she went on, "could be too mean--nothing could be mean
enough--to mete out to him in payment of his own treachery and
cowardice."

She went to a drawer in her writing-table and took from it an almanac.

"The letter you have in your hand," she said, "was handed to Mr. Durnovo
exactly a month ago by the woman at Msala. From that time to this he has
done nothing. He has simply abandoned Mr. Meredith."

"He is in Loango?" inquired Oscard, with a premonitory sense of
enjoyment in his voice.

"Yes."

"Does he know that you have sent for me?"

"No," replied Jocelyn.

Guy Oscard smiled.

"I think I will go and look for him," he said.

At dusk that same evening there was a singular incident in the bar-room
of the only hotel in Loango.

Victor Durnovo was there, surrounded by a few friends of antecedents and
blood similar to his own. They were having a convivial time of it, and
the consumption of whisky was greater than might be deemed discreet in
such a climate as that of Loango.

Durnovo was in the act of raising his glass to his lips when the open
doorway was darkened, and Guy Oscard stood before him. The half-breed's
jaw dropped; the glass was set down again rather unsteadily on the
zinc-covered counter.

"I want you," said Oscard.

There was a little pause, an ominous silence, and Victor Durnovo slowly
followed Oscard out of the room, leaving that ominous silence behind.

"I leave for Msala to-night," said Oscard, when they were outside, "and
you are coming with me."

"I'll see you damned first!" replied Durnovo, with a courage born of
Irish whisky.

Guy Oscard said nothing, but he stretched out his right hand suddenly.
His fingers closed in the collar of Victor Durnovo's coat, and that
parti-coloured scion of two races found himself feebly trotting through
the one street of Loango.

"Le' go!" he gasped.

But the hand at his neck neither relinquished nor contracted. When they
reached the beach the embarkation of the little army was going forward
under Maurice Gordon's supervision. Victor looked at Gordon. He
reflected over the trump card held in his hand,