The King wrinkled his brows. “I do not much understand these political affairs, but I trust you. If you say that it is so, it is so.”
“You had much better trust me,” said Lechworthy, without temper and quite placidly. “You see, Scotland Yard has lost a man, and it knows the route to Faloo, and it does not let things slide. It is only my story of what happened which can save serious trouble for this island.”
“Still,” said the King, “when we discussed this last night, I did think what might happen if you said nothing of this—this mistake of my people.”
“That is already answered. If I do not tell, it is likely to be worse for you. Not in any spot in the globe can the treacherous slaughter of many British subjects be over-looked.”
“And yet you tell me that, though the scheme goes, its results are still possible.”
“I do. And it depends principally on you.”
“On me? There is nothing I would not do.”
“You have made money, and might make much more. You have adopted the English language—our names and dress. You have studied much. You could let that go?”
The King snapped his fingers. “Like that,” he said.
“Very well. Go back to your people. Speak their language and wear native dress. Be a King and not a trader. Break up the stills and empty the vats into the sea. Sell your trading-vessels, the one link that binds Faloo to the world outside. You tell me that the island produces all that a native needs; limit yourself to that. It may be that trade of its own accord will come to you; some soap manufacturer may try to buy your plantation or even the entire island. Refuse him. Do not be tempted. If chance visitors should come here, treat them with humanity but without hospitality; make it unlikely that they will return. The story of the Exiles’ Club will be known, and the island will no longer be a refuge for the uncaught criminal. Go back to the simplicity of your fathers and trust to the obscurity of your kingdom, and here the race may recover.”