who used to be at the
Hotel de la Fleur, and that the Red One was ill. She thrust
into his hand a crumpled piece of newspaper, and when he
opened it he found in it a hundred-franc note.

"Who is the Red One?" he asked of one of the bystanders.

He was told that that was what they called the Englishman, a
painter, who lived with Ata up in the valley seven kilometres
from where they were. He recognised Strickland by the
description. But it was necessary to walk. It was impossible
for him to go; that was why they had sent the girl away.

"I confess," said the doctor, turning to me, "that I
hesitated. I did not relish fourteen kilometres over a bad
pathway, and there was no chance that I could get back to
Papeete that night. Besides, Strickland was not sympathetic
to me. He was an idle, useless scoundrel, who preferred to
live with a native woman rather than work for his living like
the rest of us. <i Mon Dieu>, how was I to know that one day
the world would come to the conclusion that he had genius?
I asked the girl if he was not well enough to have come down to
see me. I asked her what she thought was the matter with him.
She would not answer. I pressed her, angrily perhaps, but she
looked down on the ground and began to cry. Then I shrugged
my shoulders; after all, perhaps it was my duty to go, and in
a very bad temper I bade her lead the way."

His temper was certainly no better when he arrived, perspiring
freely and thirsty. Ata was on the look-out for him, and came
a little way along the path to meet him.

"Before I see anyone give me something to drink or I shall die
of thirst," he cried out. "<i Pour l'amour de Dieu>, get me a
cocoa-nut."

She called out, and a boy came running along. He swarmed up a
tree, and presently threw down a ripe nut. Ata pierced a hole
in it, and the doctor took a long, refreshing draught.
Then he rolled himself a cigarette and felt in a better humour.

"Now, where is the Red One?" he asked.

"He is in the house, painting. I have not told him you were
coming. Go in and see him."

"But what does he complain of? If he is well enough to paint,
he is well enough to have come down to Taravao and save me
this confounded walk. I presume my time is no less valuable
than his."

Ata did not speak, but with the boy followed him to the house.
The girl who had brought him was by this time sitting on the
verandah, and here was lying an old woman, with her back to
the wa