all of us in the Islands, this wandering Heyst, who didn't toil or spin
visibly, seemed the very last person to be the agent of Providence in
an affair concerned with money. The fact of his turning up in Timor or
anywhere else was no more wonderful than the settling of a sparrow on
one's window-sill at any given moment. But that he should carry a sum of
money in his pocket seemed somehow inconceivable.

So inconceivable that as they were trudging together through the sand
of the roadway to the custom-house--another mud hovel--to pay the
fine, Morrison broke into a cold sweat, stopped short, and exclaimed in
faltering accents:

"I say! You aren't joking, Heyst?"

"Joking!" Heyst's blue eyes went hard as he turned them on the
discomposed Morrison. "In what way, may I ask?" he continued with
austere politeness.

Morrison was abashed.

"Forgive me, Heyst. You must have been sent by God in answer to my
prayer. But I have been nearly off my chump for three days with worry;
and it suddenly struck me: 'What if it's the Devil who has sent him?'"

"I have no connection with the supernatural," said Heyst graciously,
moving on. "Nobody has sent me. I just happened along."

"I know better," contradicted Morrison. "I may be unworthy, but I have
been heard. I know it. I feel it. For why should you offer--"