bearing of the subject somewhat by asking if Renouard had heard
from his people lately, and if every member of his large tribe was
well and happy.

"Yes, thanks."

The tone was curt, as if repelling a liberty. Renouard did not
like being asked about his people, for whom he had a profound and
remorseful affection. He had not seen a single human being to whom
he was related, for many years, and he was extremely different from
them all.

On the very morning of his arrival from his island he had gone to a
set of pigeon-holes in Willie Dunster's outer office and had taken
out from a compartment labelled "Malata" a very small accumulation
of envelopes, a few addressed to himself, and one addressed to his
assistant, all to the care of the firm, W. Dunster and Co. As
opportunity offered, the firm used to send them on to Malata either
by a man-of-war schooner going on a cruise, or by some trading
craft proceeding that way. But for the last four months there had
been no opportunity.

"You going to stay here some time?" asked the Editor, after a
longish silence.

Renouard, perfunctorily, did see no reason why he should make a
long stay.

"For health, for your mental health, my boy," rejoined the
newspaper man. "To get used to human faces so that they don't hit