that followed he did not find
time to think much of his own affairs. Millicent Chyne occupied all his
thoughts--all his waking moments. It is marvellous how busily employed
an active-minded young lady can keep a man.

In the ill-lighted study rendered famous by the great history which had
emanated in the manuscript therefrom, Guy Oscard had interviewed sundry
great commercial experts, and a cheque for forty-eight thousand pounds
had been handed to him across the table polished bright by his father's
studious elbow. The Simiacine was sold, and the first portion of
it spent went to buy a diamond aigrette for the dainty head of Miss
Millicent Chyne.

Guy Oscard was in the midst of the London season. His wealth and a
certain restricted renown had soon made him popular. He had only to
choose his society, and the selection was not difficult. Wherever
Millicent Chyne went he went also, and to the lady's credit it must be
recorded that no one beyond herself and Guy Oscard had hitherto noticed
this fact. Millicent was nothing if not discreet. It was more or less
generally known that she was engaged to Jack Meredith, who, although
absent on some vaguely romantic quest of a fortune, was not yet
forgotten. No word, however, was popularly whispered connecting her name
with that of any other swain nearer home. Miss Chyne was too much of a
woman of the world to allow that. But, in the meantime, she rather liked
diamond aigrettes and the suppressed devotion of Guy Oscard.

It was the evening of a great ball, and Guy Oscard, having received
his orders and instructions, was dining alone in Russell Square, when a
telegram was handed to him. He opened it and spread the thin paper out
upon the table-cloth. A word from that far, wild country, which seemed
so much fitter a background to his simple bulk and strength than the
cramped ways of London society--a message from the very heart of the
dark continent--to him:

"Meredith surrounded and in danger Durnovo false come at once Jocelyn
Gordon."

Guy Oscard pushed back his chair and rose at once, as if there were
somebody waiting in the hall to see him.

"I do not want any more dinner," he said, "I am going to Africa. Come
and help me to pack my things."

He studied Bradshaw and wrote a note to Millicent Chyne. To her he said
the same as he had said to the butler, "I am going to Africa."

There was something refreshingly direct and simple about this man. He
did not enter into long exp