Roger went up to the big house. The caretaker, a pudgy little man with the stench of whisky on his breath, was waiting for him.
"Mr. Payne?"
"Yes."
"A note for you, sir. Mr. Garman said he expected, sir, that you would be round."
The note was addressed to Garman in a clear feminine hand, and it read:
"Garman: Am at the cottage on Palm Island; come to-night. Annette."
At the bottom in a huge masculine scrawl, were three words; "Poor
Payne! Garman."
"Palm Island?" repeated Willy High Pockets. "Garman got house on Palm
Island. Yes."
"Do you know where it is?" asked Roger.
It was night, and he had called Willy High Pockets away from the camp to ask him the question. The time intervening from the receipt of the note at Garman's and the present had been like a nightmare. He had wandered in the jungle and laughed aloud at himself for a sentimental fool. Garman was right: dreams, ideals, high hopes were only illusions, only lies, fairy-like mirages to lead a man into the barren desert of experience. The note in his pocket proved it. He read the note over and over again.
"Come to-night, Annette."
His laughter each time he scanned the words was a mirthless expression of despair. Garman was right. Garman had won.