s a silence between the two which to
Mackintosh was endless. He seemed to read the thoughts which were in the
Kanaka's mind. His heart beat violently. And then he felt as though
something possessed him so that he acted under the compulsion of a
foreign will. Himself did not make the movements of his body, but a
power that was strange to him. His throat was suddenly dry, and he put
his hand to it mechanically in order to help his speech. He was impelled
to avoid Manuma's eyes.

"Just wait here," he said, his voice sounded as though someone had
seized him by the windpipe, "and I'll fetch you something from the
dispensary."

He got up. Was it his fancy that he staggered a little? Manuma stood
silently, and though he kept his eyes averted, Mackintosh knew that he
was looking dully out of the door. It was this other person that
possessed him that drove him out of the room, but it was himself that
took a handful of muddled papers and threw them on the revolver in order
to hide it from view. He went to the dispensary. He got a pill and
poured out some blue draught into a small bottle, and then came out into
the compound. He did not want to go back into his own bungalow, so he
called to Manuma.

"Come here."

He gave him the drugs and instructions how to take them. He did not know
what it was that made it impossible for him to look at the Kanaka. While
he was speaking to him he kept his eyes on his shoulder. Manuma took the
medicine and slunk out of the gate.

Mackintosh went into the dining-room and turned over once more the old
newspapers. But he could not read them. The house was very still. Walker
was upstairs in his room asleep, the Chinese cook was busy in the
kitchen, the two policemen were out fishing. The silence that seemed to
brood over the house was unearthly, and there hammered in Mackintosh's
head the question whether the revolver still lay where he had placed it.
He could not bring himself to look. The uncertainty was horrible, but
the certainty would be more horrible still. He sweated. At last he could
stand the silence no longer, and he made up his mind to go down the
road to the trader's, a man named Jervis, who had a store about a mile
away. He was a half-caste, but even that amount of white blood made him
possible to talk to. He wanted to get away from his bungalow, with the
desk littered with untidy papers, and underneath them something, or
nothing. He walked along the road. As he passed the fine hut