aristocratic head and a refined face, which somehow suggested an
aristocrat of old France.

"Yes," answered Durnovo.

The tall man stepped ashore and held out his hand.

"I am glad we have met you," he said; "I have a letter of
introduction to you from Maurice Gordon, of Loango."

Victor Durnovo's dark face changed slightly; his eyes--bilious,
fever-shot, unhealthy--took a new light.

"Ah!" he answered, "are you a friend of Maurice Gordon's?"

There was another question in this, an unasked one; and Victor
Durnovo was watching for the answer. But the face he watched was
like a delicately carved piece of brown marble, with a courteous,
impenetrable smile.

"I met him again the other day at Loango. He is an old Etonian like
myself."

This conveyed nothing to Durnovo, who belonged to a different world,
whose education was, like other things about him, an unknown
quantity.

"My name," continued the tall man, "is Meredith--John Meredith--
sometimes called Jack."