le, though he was staking his career, his life, and the life of the
colony on the correctness of his judgment. Sir Charles Hardiman would
never have recognised in the man who now sat at the head of the mess
table the young man who had been so torn by this and that discrimination
in the cabin of his yacht at Stockholm. There was something of the
joyous savage about him now--a type which England was to discover
shortly in some strength amongst the young men who were to officer its
armies.

"I don't agree. I have invited the chiefs to see justice done. I am
going to pitch them a speech myself from the scaffold--cautionary tales
for children, don't you know--and then, if old Fee-Fo-Fum with the
mallet don't get too excited and miss his stroke, everything will go
like clockwork."

Hillyard wondered how in the world he was going to deliver Stella
Croyle's message--a flimsy thing of delicate sentimentality--to this man
concerned with life and death, and discharging his responsibilities
according to the just rules of his race, without fear and without too
much self-questioning. Indeed, the Luttrell, Acting-Governor of Senga,
was a more familiar figure to Hillyard than he would have been to
Stella Croyle. For he had shaken off, under the pressure of immediate
work and immediate decisions, the thin and subtle emotions which were
having their way with him two years before. He had recaptured the high
spirit of Oxford days, and was lit along his path by that clear flame.

But there were tact and discretion too, as Hillyard was to learn. For
Mr. Blacker still croaked at the other end of the table.

"It's right and just and all that of course. But you are taking too high
a risk, Luttrell."

The very silence at the table made it clear to Hillyard that Luttrell
stood alone in his judgment. But Luttrell only smiled and said:

"Well, old man, since I disagree, the only course is to refer the whole
problem to our honorary member."

And at once every countenance lightened, and merriment began to flick
and dance from one to other of that company like the beads on the
surface of champagne. Only Hillyard was mystified.

"Your honorary member!" he inquired.

Luttrell nodded solemnly, and raised his glass.

"Gentlemen, the Honorary Member of the Senga Mess--Sir Chichester
Splay."

The toast was drunk with enthusiasm by all but Hillyard, who sat staring
about him and wondering what in the world the Mecaenas of the First
Nights had i