again, and as evening drew on he had the bay
saddled and sauntered through the bush. He seemed to see it all with new
eyes. He felt more normal. The extraordinary thing was that he was able
to put Walker out of his mind altogether. So far as he was concerned he
might never have existed.

He returned late, hot after his ride, and bathed again. Then he sat on
the verandah, smoking his pipe, and looked at the day declining over the
lagoon. In the sunset the lagoon, rosy and purple and green, was very
beautiful. He felt at peace with the world and with himself. When the
cook came out to say that dinner was ready and to ask whether he should
wait, Mackintosh smiled at him with friendly eyes. He looked at his
watch.

"It's half-past seven. Better not wait. One can't tell when the boss'll
be back."

The boy nodded, and in a moment Mackintosh saw him carry across the yard
a bowl of steaming soup. He got up lazily, went into the dining-room,
and ate his dinner. Had it happened? The uncertainty was amusing and
Mackintosh chuckled in the silence. The food did not seem so monotonous
as usual, and even though there was Hamburger steak, the cook's
invariable dish when his poor invention failed him, it tasted by some
miracle succulent and spiced. After dinner he strolled over lazily to
his bungalow to get a book. He liked the intense stillness, and now
that the night had fallen the stars were blazing in the sky. He shouted
for a lamp and in a moment the Chink pattered over on his bare feet,
piercing the darkness with a ray of light. He put the lamp on the desk
and noiselessly slipped out of the room. Mackintosh stood rooted to the
floor, for there, half hidden by untidy papers, was his revolver. His
heart throbbed painfully, and he broke into a sweat. It was done then.

He took up the revolver with a shaking hand. Four of the chambers were
empty. He paused a moment and looked suspiciously out into the night,
but there was no one there. He quickly slipped four cartridges into the
empty chambers and locked the revolver in his drawer.

He sat down to wait.

An hour passed, a second hour passed. There was nothing. He sat at his
desk as though he were writing, but he neither wrote nor read. He merely
listened. He strained his ears for a sound travelling from a far
distance. At last he heard hesitating footsteps and knew it was the
Chinese cook.

"Ah-Sung," he called.

The boy came to the door.

"Boss velly late," he said. "Din