“I’ve spoken of it to Hanson and Mast, so far as I know it. You ought to have written in more detail. Do be as quick as you can.”
“There’s no hurry,” said Pryce, cheerfully, as he followed Thomas.
The formal business went through, including the provisional election of a new member, and some desultory discussion followed. The Rev. Cyril Mast looked ill, shaky and depressed. He asked many questions, most of which could not be answered, and repeated at intervals that in his belief Dr Pryce would pull them through. Sir John was barely civil to him, and glanced repeatedly at his watch. Hanson was taciturn.
Half an hour had elapsed before Dr Pryce entered the room. He was quite conscious that he was being talked about as he entered. He nodded to Hanson and Mast, dropped into a chair, and lit a cigarette.
“At last!” said Sir John, severely.
“That chap won’t lose the sight of the eye, but he’s had a damned near shave.”
Sir John controlled himself with difficulty. “Very interesting, doctor. We are not here, however, to consider the fact that one of the native servants has not lost his eyesight, but a subject of almost equal importance—the liberty and probably the lives of every white man on the island. Dr Pryce, gentlemen, comes fresh from the enemy’s camp. He was called in, as you know, to attend Lechworthy’s niece, and he has had unusual opportunities for observation. He has already sent us, very briefly, some alarming and serious news. We shall be glad if he can supplement it in any way, and if he will tell us to what conclusions he has come.”
“Hear, hear,” said Mast.
“The conclusion to which I have come,” said Pryce, “is that Faloo is finished, so far as we are concerned. The Exiles’ Club is done, D-o-n-e, done. Sauve qui peut—that’s the order.”
His three hearers looked at him, and at one another. There was a moment’s silence.