he past eager to step back into the life of men.

Lingard ignored this wreck of an adventurer, sticking to him closer than
his shadow, and the other did not try to attract attention. He waited
patiently at the doors of offices, would vanish at tiffin time, would
invariably turn up again in the evening and then he kept his place
till Lingard went aboard for the night. The police peons on duty looked
disdainfully at the phantom of Captain H. C. Jorgenson, Barque Wild
Rose, wandering on the silent quay or standing still for hours at the
edge of the sombre roadstead speckled by the anchor lights of ships--an
adventurous soul longing to recross the waters of oblivion.

The sampan-men, sculling lazily homeward past the black hull of the brig
at anchor, could hear far into the night the drawl of the New England
voice escaping through the lifted panes of the cabin skylight. Snatches
of nasal sentences floated in the stillness around the still craft.

"Yes, siree! Mexican war rifles--good as new--six in a case--my people
in Baltimore--that's so. Hundred and twenty rounds thrown in for
each specimen--marked to suit your requirements. Suppose--musical
instruments, this side up with care--how's that for your taste? No, no!
Cash down--my people in Balt--Shooting sea-gulls you say? Waal! It's
a risky business--see here--ten per cent. discount--it's out of my own
pocket--"

As time wore on, and nothing happened, at least nothing that one could
hear of, the excitement died out. Lingard's new attitude was accepted
as only "his way." There was nothing in it, maintained some. Others
dissented. A good deal of curiosity, however, remained and the faint
rumour of something big being in preparation followed him into every
harbour he went to, from Rangoon to Hongkong.

He felt nowhere so much at home as when his brig was anchored on the
inner side of the great stretch of shoals. The centre of his life had
shifted about four hundred miles--from the Straits of Malacca to the
Shore of Refuge--and when there he felt himself within the circle of
another existence, governed by his impulse, nearer his desire. Hassim
and Immada would come down to the coast and wait for him on the islet.
He always left them with regret.

At the end of the first stage in each trip, Jorgenson waited for him
at the top of the boat-stairs and without a word fell into step at his
elbow. They seldom exchanged three words in a day; but one evening about
six months befor