"Something easy," muttered Renouard without unclenching his teeth.

"Hunting man. Athlete. Don't be hard on the chap. He may be
riding boundaries, or droving cattle, or humping his swag about the
back-blocks away to the devil--somewhere. He may be even
prospecting at the back of beyond--this very moment."

"Or lying dead drunk in a roadside pub. It's late enough in the
day for that."

The Editor looked up instinctively. The clock was pointing at a
quarter to five. "Yes, it is," he admitted. "But it needn't be.
And he may have lit out into the Western Pacific all of a sudden--
say in a trading schooner. Though I really don't see in what
capacity. Still . . . "

"Or he may be passing at this very moment under this very window."

"Not he . . . and I wish you would get away from it to where one
can see your face. I hate talking to a man's back. You stand
there like a hermit on a sea-shore growling to yourself. I tell
you what it is, Geoffrey, you don't like mankind."

"I don't make my living by talking about mankind's affairs,"
Renouard defended himself. But he came away obediently and sat
down in the armchair. "How can you be so certain that your man
isn't down there in the street?" he asked. "It's neither more nor
less probable than every single one of your other suppositions."