It was from this journey that Bateman Hunter had now returned.

Meaning to take Edward by surprise, he had not sent a telegram to announce his arrival, and when at last he landed in Tahiti he asked the youth who was leading him to the hotel:

“Can you tell me where I shall find Mr. Edward Barnard?”

“Barnard?” said the youth. “I think I know the name. You mean Mr. Jackson’s nephew.”

Bateman was startled. It was strange that Arnold Jackson, whose name was known to everybody, had not changed it and lived here under the disgraceful name in which he had been convicted.

Having found the premises of Braunschmidt and Co, Bateman went to the manager.

“Can you tell me where I shall find Mr. Edward Barnard? I understand he was in this office for some time.”

“He is working at Cameron’s, I think,” came the answer.

Bateman walked in the direction indicated and soon found himself at Cameron’s. It was a shop, and when he entered, the first person he saw was Edward. It shocked him to see his friend doing such humble work.

Looking up, Edward caught sight of him and gave a joyful cry of surprise.

“Bateman! Who ever thought of seeing you here?”

He displayed no embarrassment.

“Just wait till I’ve wrapped this package.”

Quietly and skillfully he cut the material, folded it, made it into a parcel and handed it to the dark-skinned customer.

“Oh, I am delighted to see you. Sit down, old man. Make yourself at home.”

“We can’t talk here. Come along to my hotel. I suppose you can get away?”

“Of course I can get away. We are not so business-like in Tahiti.”

Edward put on a coat and accompanied Bateman out of the shop.

“I didn’t expect to find you selling cotton to a native,” Bateman laughed.

“I guess not. But I earn enough to keep body and soul together and I am quite satisfied with that.”

“You wouldn’t have been satisfied with that two years ago.”

“We grow wiser as we grow older,” retorted Edward cheerfully.

They arrived at the hotel and sat on the terrace. A Chinese boy brought them cocktails. Edward was anxious to hear all the news of Chicago. But the strange thing was that his interest seemed equally divided among a multitude of subjects. He did not show any special interest in Isabel.

Edward waved his hand to a man who appeared on the terrace.

“Come and sit down,” he said.

The new-comer approached. He was a very tall thin man with curly white hair.

“This is my old friend, Bateman Hunter. I’ve told you about him,” said Edward smiling.

The stranger shook Bateman’s hand friendly.

“I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Hunter,” he said. “I used to know your father.”

“This is Mr. Arnold Jackson,” said Edward to Bateman.

Bateman turned white. This was the forger, the convict, this was Isabel’s uncle. He did not know what to say. But Jackson said, “I can’t sit down. I am busy, Teddy. But you two boys come and have dinner with us.”

“Of course we’ll come,” said Edward.

Jackson nodded and walked away before Bateman could say a word. For some time he was silent.

“I don’t see how any decent man can have anything to do with him,” he said. “Do you see much of him, Edward?”

“Yes, quite a lot. He has adopted me as his nephew. He has taught me everything I know.”

“What has he taught you? cried Bateman in amazement.

“How to live.”

“I am not going to dine with him. Nothing would induce me to set foot in that man’s house.”

“Come to oblige me, Bateman. We’ve been friends for so many years; you won’t refuse me a favour when I ask it.” Edward’s tone was persuasive.

“If you put it like that, Edward, I’ll have to come,” he smiled.

Arnold Jackson’s house stood on a little hill.

They were met by a tall handsome native woman, no longer young, with whom Edward cordially shook hands.

“We are going to dine with you, Lavina.”

“All right,” she said. “Arnold isn’t back yet.”

“We’ll go down and bathe.”

The woman nodded and went into the house.

“Who is that?” asked Bateman.

“Oh, that’s Lavina. She is Arnold’s wife.”

The two men went to the beach.

Soon they were splashing in the warm, shallow water. Edward was in great spirits. He laughed and shouted and sang. He behaved as if he were fifteen years old.

They saw that Arnold Jackson was coming towards them.

“If you are ready, we shall go into the house,” said Jackson.

They walked up to the house where a table was laid for dinner. Then Jackson led Bateman to a long low window.

“Look at that,” he said.

Below them coconut trees grew on a steep slope going down to the lagoon. Near a stream at a little distance Bateman could see the huts of a little village. Further on stretched the vast calmness of the Pacific, and twenty miles away the unimaginable beauty of the island which is called Murea.”