“Has his health been good?” he asked, rather formally.
“I believe so, until quite lately. My brother heard yesterday by telegram that he was at Loango in broken health,” replied Jocelyn.
Sir John was looking at her keenly—his hard blue eyes like steel between the lashless lids.
“You disquiet me,” he said. “I have a sort of feeling that you have bad news to tell me.”
“No,” she answered, “not exactly. But it seems to me that no one realises what he is doing out in Africa—what risks he is running.”
“Tell me,” he said, drawing in his chair. “I will not interrupt you. Tell me all you know from beginning to end. I am naturally—somewhat interested.”
So Jocelyn told him. And what she said was only a recapitulation of facts known to such as have followed these pages to this point. But the story did not sound quite the same as that related to Millicent. It was fuller, and there were certain details touched upon lightly which had before been emphasised—details of dangers run and risks incurred. Also was it listened to in a different spirit, without shallow comment, with a deeper insight. Suddenly he broke into the narrative. He saw—keen old worldling that he was—a discrepancy.
“But,” he said, “there was no one in Loango connected with the scheme who”—he paused, touching her sleeve with a bony finger—“who sent the telegram home to young Oscard—the telegram calling him out to Jack's relief?”
“Oh,” she explained lightly, “I did. My brother was away, so there was no one else to do it, you see!”
“Yes—I see.”