Already there were many natives on the beach, adorned with wreaths and necklaces of flowers, wearing holiday clothes. It might be of course that the schooner was merely waiting for a wind, but perhaps a boat would come ashore and there would be much festivity. Possibly some order had come to them from King Smith, for a few of the natives who would have launched their canoes were restrained by the others; and the two men who had taken Cyril Mast out did not attempt to go on board. Of King Smith himself nothing was to be seen. The white men still slept peacefully in their bedrooms at the club, or in their own houses. The schooner was Cyril Mast’s own discovery; none of the others knew of its arrival.
On the deck of the Snowflake Mr Lechworthy came forward with hand outstretched.
“I don’t know your name, sir,” he said, “but I am glad and proud to meet you. Missionary enterprise is a subject in which I take the deepest interest. My name’s Lechworthy—you may have come across it in connection with my business.”
Cyril Mast stammered his own name. He was astounded. He, the pariah, the outcast, had been mistaken for a missionary. This man of wealth and position was admiring his heroic self-sacrifice. And that beautiful girl with the laughing eyes—
“Permit me, sir, to present you to my niece, Miss Auriol.”
Miss Auriol took one glance at his pimply, blotchy complexion, and in great charity remembered that there was a complaint called prickly heat and that a prolonged sojourn in the tropics must be unhealthy for a European. She chatted freely. They expected to sail again later in the morning, but were sending a boat ashore to see if they could get some fresh fruit. Her uncle and she had thought of going in the boat and getting an hour, perhaps, in Faloo.
As she spoke, Cyril Mast made up his mind. He would act the part that had been given him. The deception could not be kept up for any length of time, but it might be managed for one hour. It was simple enough to call the club the mission-house. Few if any of the members would be about at this hour, and he could manage to get breakfast served at a table on the lawn outside the house. An hour in which to see this beautiful English girl—
He found himself speaking rapidly. They must certainly come ashore and have breakfast at the mission-house. His canoe would pilot their boat. It would be the greatest pleasure for him to show them something of the island. See, that was the mission-house there among the orange trees.
Hilda Auriol and her uncle agreed that it looked charming; the invitation was at once accepted. Preparations for their departure and the arrangements for their return were made at once. Cyril Mast’s canoe flew over the water, the schooner’s boat following. Speaking partly in the native tongue and partly in English he explained to the crowd on the beach that the ship was “Mikonaree.” He would take the “Mikonaree” and his daughter up to the club, where they wished to go. The others—they must entertain them as best they could—would be going up to the stores to buy things and the King would direct what was to be done.