There was another question in this, an unasked one; and Victor Durnovo was watching for the answer. But the face he watched was like a delicately carved piece of brown marble, with a courteous, impenetrable smile.
“I met him again the other day at Loango. He is an old Etonian like myself.”
This conveyed nothing to Durnovo, who belonged to a different world, whose education was, like other things about him, an unknown quantity.
“My name,” continued the tall man, “is Meredith—John Meredith—sometimes called Jack.”
They were walking up the bank towards the dusky and uninviting tent.
“And the other fellow?” inquired Durnovo, with a backward jerk of the head.
“Oh—he is my servant.”
Durnovo raised his eyebrows in somewhat contemptuous amusement, and proceeded to open the letter which Meredith had handed him.
“Not many fellows,” he said, “on this coast can afford to keep a European servant.”
Jack Meredith bowed, and ignored the irony.