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Mackintosh watched him with contempt in his heart. The man’s self-complacency outraged him, and yet something, he knew not what, made him insist.

“Remember what happened this morning. It wouldn’t hurt you to stay at home just to-night. I’ll play piquet with you.”

“I’ll play piquet with
you when I come back. The Kanaka isn’t born yet who can make me alter my plans.”

“You’d better let me come with you.”

“You stay where you are.”

Mackintosh shrugged his shoulders. He had given the man full warning. If he did not heed it that was his own lookout. Walker put on his hat and went out. Mackintosh began to read; but then he thought of something; perhaps it would be as well to have his own whereabouts quite clear. He crossed over to the kitchen and, inventing some pretext, talked for a few minutes with the cook. Then he got out the gramophone and put a record on it, but while it ground out its melancholy tune, some comic song of a London music-hall, his ear was strained for a sound away there in the night. At his elbow the record reeled out its loudness, the words were raucous, but notwithstanding he seemed to be surrounded by an unearthly silence. He heard the dull roar of the breakers against the reef. He heard the breeze sigh, far up, in the leaves of the coconut trees. How long would it be? It was awful.

He heard a hoarse laugh.

“Wonders will never cease. It’s not often you play yourself a tune, Mac.”

Walker stood at the window, red-faced, bluff and jovial.

“Well, you see I’m alive and kicking. What were you playing for?”

Walker came in.

“Nerves a bit dicky, eh? Playing a tune to keep your pecker up?”

“I was playing your requiem.”

“What the devil’s that?”

“‘Alf o’ bitter an’ a pint of stout.”

“A rattling good song too. I don’t mind how often I hear it. Now I’m ready to take your money off you at piquet.”

They played and Walker bullied his way to victory, bluffing his opponent, chaffing him, jeering at his mistakes, up to every dodge, browbeating him, exulting. Presently Mackintosh recovered his coolness, and standing outside himself, as it were, he was able to take a detached pleasure in watching the overbearing old man and in his own cold reserve. Somewhere Manuma sat quietly and awaited his opportunity.

Walker won game after game and pocketed his winnings at the end of the evening in high good humour.

“You’ll have to grow a little bit older before you stand much chance against me, Mac. The fact is I have a natural gift for cards.”

“I don’t know that there’s much gift about it when I happen to deal you fourteen aces.”

“Good cards come to good players,” retorted Walker.”I’d have won if I’d had your hands.”

He went on to tell long stories of the various occasions on which he had played cards with notorious sharpers and to their consternation had taken all their money from them. He boasted. He praised himself. And Mackintosh listened with absorption. He wanted now to feed his hatred; and everything Walker said, every gesture, made him more detestable. At last Walker got up.

“Well, I’m going to turn in,” he said with a loud yawn.”I’ve got a long day to-morrow.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m driving over to the other side of the island. I’ll start at five, but I don’t expect I shall get back to dinner till late.”

They generally dined at seven.

“We’d better make it half past seven then.”

“I guess it would be as well.”

Mackintosh watched him knock the ashes out of his pipe. His vitality was rude and exuberant. It was strange to think that death hung over him. A faint smile flickered in Mackintosh’s cold, gloomy eyes.