Wyndham gave him some old brandy and he drank with leisurely enjoyment. Although he wore ragged and dirty cotton and his legs were bare, it was obvious that Rupert Wyndham had now done with pretense.
"I'm your guest," he said to Wyndham. "Perhaps it's not good manners, but I'd sooner Mr. Marston left us alone."
"Bob's my partner; I think we'll let him stay," Wyndham replied. "All that interests me interests him."
Rupert shrugged. "It looks as if you had given him your confidence."
"He knows who you are."
"Oh, well!" said Rupert. "You sent for me. I don't know if I approve the form of the invitation you gave my servant."
"Something like lè Majesté?" Wyndham suggested.
"Something like that," said Rupert with a touch of dryness. "After all, I'm king de facto in the bush."
"Then I think you ought to be content," Wyndham rejoined. "The republic is forced to challenge a king de jure."
Rupert looked at him with half-closed, bloodshot eyes, and Marston thought his face was now like a negro's. After all, his civilized talk and manners were a mask; the fellow was a negro underneath.