“And,” he asked, with veiled sarcasm, “do you carry out the—er—commercial part of the scheme?”
“I shall begin to arrange for the sale of the consignment to-morrow. I shall have no difficulty—at least, I anticipate none. Yes, I do the commercial part—as well as the other. I held the Plateau against two thousand natives for three months, with fifty-five men. But I do the commercial part as well.”
As he was looking into the fire still, Sir John stole a long comprehensive glance at his son's face. His old eyes lighted up with pride and something else—possibly love. The clock on the mantelpiece struck eleven. Jack looked at it thoughtfully, then he rose.
“I must not keep you any longer,” he said, somewhat stiffly.
Sir John rose also.
“I dare say you are tired; you need rest. In some ways you look stronger, in others you look fagged and pulled down.”
“It is the result of my illness,” said Jack. “I am really quite strong.”
He paused, standing on the hearthrug, then suddenly he held out his hand.
“Good-night,” he said.
“Good-night.”