se she knew he loved her. It touched her. She felt very
tenderly towards him.

It was from this journey that Bateman Hunter was now returned.

The business part of it took him somewhat longer than he expected and he
had much time to think of his two friends. He had come to the conclusion
that it could be nothing serious that prevented Edward from coming home,
a pride, perhaps, which made him determined to make good before he
claimed the bride he adored; but it was a pride that must be reasoned
with. Isabel was unhappy. Edward must come back to Chicago with him and
marry her at once. A position could be found for him in the works of the
Hunter Motor Traction and Automobile Company. Bateman, with a bleeding
heart, exulted at the prospect of giving happiness to the two persons he
loved best in the world at the cost of his own. He would never marry. He
would be godfather to the children of Edward and Isabel, and many years
later when they were both dead he would tell Isabel's daughter how long,
long ago he had loved her mother. Bateman's eyes were veiled with tears
when he pictured this scene to himself.

Meaning to take Edward by surprise he had not cabled to announce his
arrival, and when at last he landed at Tahiti he allowed a youth, who
said he was the son of the house, to lead him to the Hotel de la Fleur.
He chuckled when he thought of his friend's amazement on seeing him,
the most unexpected of visitors, walk into his office.

"By the way," he asked, as they went along, "can you tell me where I
shall find Mr. Edward Barnard?"

"Barnard?" said the youth. "I seem to know the name."

"He's an American. A tall fellow with light brown hair and blue eyes.
He's been here over two years."

"Of course. Now I know who you mean. You mean Mr Jackson's nephew."

"Whose nephew?"

"Mr Arnold Jackson."

"I don't think we're speaking of the same person," answered Bateman,
frigidly.

He was startled. It was queer that Arnold Jackson, known apparently to
all and sundry, should live here under the disgraceful name in which he
had been convicted. But Bateman could not imagine whom it was that he
passed off as his nephew. Mrs Longstaffe was his only sister and he had
never had a brother. The young man by his side talked volubly in an
English that had something in it of the intonation of a foreign tongue,
and Bateman, with a sidelong glance, saw, what he had not noticed
before, that there was in him a good deal of native bloo