back again and put on the dress-suit and the white tie with a
certain sense of restfulness and comfort.

Jack Meredith had known many such. He had, in a small way, done the
same himself. But he had never met one of the men who do not go
home--who possess no dress-coat and no use for it--whose business it
is to go about with a rifle in one hand and their life in the other-
-who risk their lives because it is their trade and not their
pleasure.

Durnovo could not understand the new-comer at all. He saw at once
that this was one of those British aristocrats who do strange things
in a very strange way. In a degree Meredith reminded him of Maurice
Gordon, the man whose letter of introduction was at that moment
serving to light the camp fire. But it was Maurice Gordon without
that semi-sensual weakness of purpose which made him the boon
companion of Tom, Dick, or Harry, provided that one of those was
only with him long enough. There was a vast depth of reserve--of
indefinable possibilities, which puzzled Durnovo, and in some subtle
way inspired fear.

In that part of Africa which lies within touch of the Equator, life
is essentially a struggle. There is hunger about, and where hunger
is the emotions will be found also. Now Jack Meredith was a past-
master in the concealment of these, and, as such, came to Victor
Durnovo in the guise of a new creation. He had lived the latter and
the larger part of his life among men who said, in action if not in
words, I am hungry, or I am thirsty; I want this, or I want that;
and if you are not strong enough to keep it, I will take it from
you.