“Oh, yes: I have him there,” said Renouard, without looking up.
“Well, then!” The Editor looked helplessly around as if begging for response of some sort. But the only response that came was very unexpected. Annoyed at being left in the background, and also because very little drink made him nasty, the emotional Willie turned malignant all at once, and in a bibulous tone surprising in a man able to keep his balance so well—
“Aha! But you haven’t got him here—not yet!” he sneered. “No! You haven’t got him yet.”
This outrageous exhibition was to the Editor like the lash to a jaded horse. He positively jumped.
“What of that? What do you mean? We—haven’t—got—him—here. Of course he isn’t here! But Geoffrey’s schooner is here. She can be sent at once to fetch him here. No! Stay! There’s a better plan. Why shouldn’t you all sail over to Malata, professor? Save time! I am sure Miss Moorsom would prefer. . .”
With a gallant flourish of his arm he looked for Miss Moorsom. She had disappeared. He was taken aback somewhat.
“Ah! H’m. Yes. . . . Why not. A pleasure cruise, delightful ship, delightful season, delightful errand, del . . . No! There are no objections. Geoffrey, I understand, has indulged in a bungalow three sizes too large for him. He can put you all up. It will be a pleasure for him. It will be the greatest privilege. Any man would be proud of being an agent of this happy reunion. I am proud of the little part I’ve played. He will consider it the greatest honour. Geoff, my boy, you had better be stirring to-morrow bright and early about the preparations for the trip. It would be criminal to lose a single day.”
He was as flushed as Willie, the excitement keeping up the effect of the festive dinner. For a time Renouard, silent, as if he had not heard a word of all that babble, did not stir. But when he got up it was to advance towards the Editor and give him such a hearty slap on the back that the plump little man reeled in his tracks and looked quite frightened for a moment.
“You are a heaven-born discoverer and a first-rate manager. . . He’s right. It’s the only way. You can’t resist the claim of sentiment, and you must even risk the voyage to Malata. . . ” Renouard’s voice sank. “A lonely spot,” he added, and fell into thought under all these eyes converging on him in the sudden silence. His slow glance passed over all the faces in succession, remaining arrested on Professor Moorsom, stony eyed, a smouldering cigar in his fingers, and with his sister standing by his side.