“One moment more, sir,” and a spiteful green lit up the little piggish eyes. “I desire, as a British subject, to speak to you privately on this matter, and to you alone. There are reasons—very particular reasons—why her Majesty’s Consul or the Fiji police here cannot deal with this case.”

“Oh, well,” sighed the Admiral resignedly; “sit down, Mr. Howlman. I see I am in for it, and so I’ll send for my secretary and–”

“Cannot this matter be arranged without a third party?”

“No, sir; it CANNOT!”

The Admiral said this with so much emphasis, and rang the bell with so much force at the same moment, that the sentry almost jumped into the cabin to see what was the matter.

“Pass the word for Mr. Hayling to come to my cabin, and to the captain that I shall not be with him for ten minutes yet. Ten minutes will do your business, Mr. Howlman, eh?”

“Certainly, your Excellency,” and an evil smile crossed the man’s repulsive features.

The marine saluted, the secretary appeared, and the Admiral, nodding towards Mr. Howlman in anything but a friendly manner, growled: “My secretary, Mr. Hayling. This is Mr. Howlman, Mr. Hayling; he has a communication to make about a deserter. Now, sir, proceed.”

“This,” said the man, producing a photograph and laying it on the table, “is a portrait of a person named George Barcom, who, I have every reason to believe, was a sergeant of marines on the Flycatcher when she was on this station five years ago.”

“Take charge of that photograph, Mr. Hayling. Go ahead, Mr. Howlman.”

“This man, after deserting from the Flycatcher at a place in this group called Yasawa, managed to make his way to the island of Niuafou, where at that time I was in temporary charge of the Christian Cultivation Association’s trading station. He came to the island in an open boat from the Yasawa Group, and was not suspected until quite recently.”

“Deuced long time finding him out. But proceed, sir.”

“Guilty as the man was of the crime of desertion, I must yet, perforce, say that he behaved himself very well. He was kindly received by the King Tepuaka (a very earnest seeker after the Light), and all went well for the space of four years.”

“Well, what happened then? Five minutes left,” and the Admiral looked at his watch.

“My story will soon be told, your Excellency. The man, who calls himself George Barcom, gained the affections of Tuilagi,1 the youngest daughter of the King. She, although not a seeker after the truth, was yet beginning to display some interest in the teachings of Christianity, and was an exceedingly comely young woman.” Here Mr. Howlman clasped his fat hands together and cast up his eyes. “But her father, at my suggestion, objected to their union. One night Barcom and the poor, misguided girl were missing. They had fled in an open boat to another island called Anuda—one of those dark places of the earth where the good seed has not yet been sown.”

“And what was the nature and reason of your objection to their marriage?” said the Admiral quietly.

“I had every reason by this time to believe that the man was a deserter, and in my capacity as a preacher of the Gospel—though not ordained as such—I–”

“Confine yourself to the subject, if you please,” interrupted the Admiral, with a mingled look of impatience and disgust. “You are not a missionary, you tell me, and I’m hanged if I’m going to listen to a sermon in my own cabin just now. Yet I have already given you as much of my time as if you were one. But don’t trespass on my good nature too much.”

“I thought it my duty to interfere and prevent such a wicked and improper marriage. And, your Excellency, this carrying away the young woman against her father’s wishes was very detrimental to the progress of the Mission work. As I have said, she was beginning to evince a certain concern for her soul–”

“Confound it, man! why will you so persistently harp upon irrevelant matters that do not, as far as I can see, possibly concern what you really want to tell me? Have you a brief to speak for the missionaries? I am acquainted with the principal gentlemen (again he emphasised the word) who conduct mission work in the South Seas, but I’ll be hanged if I ever heard your name before—not even as a house-builder, or whatever your vocation is.” And then, with a quick glance at the cunning visage of Howlman, he added, “I suppose you knew this young woman very well—perhaps were a particular friend of hers?”

Mr. Obadiah Howlman coughed. “Hm—er. Well, your Excellency, my dear wife, who has now departed to her rest—an indeed well-earned rest—when alive, took much interest in this young girl, and, before she was called away, besought me to cherish and protect her. And, as time went on, there was formed, I may say, an attachment between this young creature and myself—that is, of course, such an attachment as could exist between a young woman of this kind, yearning for instruction, and her spiritual adviser and guide.”

“Yes, yes; I quite understand, Mr. Howlman. Mr. Hayling has notes of your statement, and the photograph. Now, if you will kindly keep your own counsel on the matter, you will hear in due course that we have arrested this man, and then, I think, you will be satisfied.”

Then turning to his secretary, the Admiral said, “The Spitfire is due at Levuka about the 8th. Write a letter to Commander Arness, and tell him to call at Anuda and arrest a deserter from the marines, calling himself George Barcom, and who can be identified by this photograph. He is the only white man on the island, so this Mr. Howlman says, and there should be no difficulty in finding him. That will satisfy you, I presume, Mr. Howlman?”

“Quite, sir, I assure you. I have done my duty and–”

“Good-day, sir. You will just have time to get into your boat and get ashore while we are in smooth water, and before we start the engines.”

The Admiral did not seem to notice the little fat man’s outstretched hand. The secretary bowed him out of the cabin, holding the photograph in one hand and his notebook in the other. Neither of them liked his look well enough to shake hands with him.

The Admiral, however, did not give the order to start the engines immediately, for the sentry, in accordance with orders received from the secretary, waited till Mr. Obadiah Howlman was at the foot of the accommodation-ladder, and then called out, “Hold on that boat a minute or two; the Admiral wants to send a letter ashore.”

For twenty minutes Mr. Howlman waited impatiently in the boat, and then a big, official-looking letter was handed down the ladder to the boatman, addressed: “O.H.M.S.—Commander Arness, H.M.S. Spitfire care of H.B.M. Consul, Levuka, Fiji.”

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