“Yes. In a sense, yes,” stammered Mast. “He—”
“It will be interesting to talk to him about it. I happen to know him, and I will call him. Bassett!”
Bassett was startled and turned sharply. He came very slowly across the lawn, much as a dog comes to his master for punishment. What on earth was Lechworthy doing in Faloo? Was he, too, flying from justice? That would explain the arrival of the schooner and the fact that he was evidently on friendly terms with Cyril Mast. But Bassett had to put that notion aside. Knowing Lechworthy, he knew that it was not possible. And Bassett was very much afraid. What did Lechworthy mean to do? Well, he must put the best face on it he could. A defence that would be torn to rags in court might seem plausible enough in Faloo.
“Good-morning, Mr Lechworthy,” said Bassett. “This is a great surprise. Morning, Mast.”
“Bassett,” said Lechworthy, “Mr Mast, whom I had not met before, brought us here from my schooner. He has told me that you are associated with him in his missionary work here. Now you, Bassett, I have met many times before, and I know your history.”
But it was not Bassett who answered; it was Cyril Mast, whose face was white and twitched curiously.
“This is my fault, Mr Lechworthy,” said Mast. “I had not meant to represent myself to you as a missionary. But you made the mistake, and I was tempted to go on with it.”
“Yes,” said Lechworthy, quietly. “I don’t think I see why. You hardly seem to be enjoying a practical joke.”
“Don’t you? For four years I have not spoken with a decent white man or woman. We are all the same here—and we’re here because there’s no other place left. If you had known about me—the truth about me—you would not have spoken to me at all. That’s all. Don’t ask me any questions, please. I’m going to leave you now. Get back to the schooner at once; any of the natives on the beach will find a canoe for you.”