Within the Tides | Page 6

Renouard, the explorer, whose indomitable energy, etc.,
and who is now working for the prosperity of our country in another

way on his Malata plantation . . . And, by the by, how's the silk
plant--flourishing?"
"Yes."
"Did you bring any fibre?"
"Schooner-full."
"I see. To be transhipped to Liverpool for experimental manufacture, eh?
Eminent capitalists at home very much interested, aren't they?"
"They are."
A silence fell. Then the Editor uttered slowly--"You will be a rich man
some day."
Renouard's face did not betray his opinion of that confident prophecy.
He didn't say anything till his friend suggested in the same meditative
voice -
"You ought to interest Moorsom in the affair too--since Willie has let
you in."
"A philosopher!"
"I suppose he isn't above making a bit of money. And he may be clever
at it for all you know. I have a notion that he's a fairly practical old
cove. . . . Anyhow," and here the tone of the speaker took on a tinge of
respect, "he has made philosophy pay."
Renouard raised his eyes, repressed an impulse to jump up, and got out
of the arm-chair slowly. "It isn't perhaps a bad idea," he said. "I'll have
to call there in any case."
He wondered whether he had managed to keep his voice steady, its tone
unconcerned enough; for his emotion was strong though it had nothing
to do with the business aspect of this suggestion. He moved in the room
in vague preparation for departure, when he heard a soft laugh. He spun

about quickly with a frown, but the Editor was not laughing at him. He
was chuckling across the big desk at the wall: a preliminary of some
speech for which Renouard, recalled to himself, waited silent and
mistrustful.
"No! You would never guess! No one would ever guess what these
people are after. Willie's eyes bulged out when he came to me with the
tale."
"They always do," remarked Renouard with disgust. "He's stupid."
"He was startled. And so was I after he told me. It's a search party.
They are out looking for a man. Willie's soft heart's enlisted in the
cause."
Renouard repeated: "Looking for a man."
He sat down suddenly as if on purpose to stare. "Did Willie come to
you to borrow the lantern," he asked sarcastically, and got up again for
no apparent reason.
"What lantern?" snapped the puzzled Editor, and his face darkened with
suspicion. "You, Renouard, are always alluding to things that aren't
clear to me. If you were in politics, I, as a party journalist, wouldn't
trust you further than I could see you. Not an inch further. You are such
a sophisticated beggar. Listen: the man is the man Miss Moorsom was
engaged to for a year. He couldn't have been a nobody, anyhow. But he
doesn't seem to have been very wise. Hard luck for the young lady."
He spoke with feeling. It was clear that what he had to tell appealed to
his sentiment. Yet, as an experienced man of the world, he marked his
amused wonder. Young man of good family and connections, going
everywhere, yet not merely a man about town, but with a foot in the
two big F's.
Renouard lounging aimlessly in the room turned round: "And what the
devil's that?" he asked faintly.

"Why Fashion and Finance," explained the Editor. "That's how I call it.
There are the three R's at the bottom of the social edifice and the two
F's on the top. See?"
"Ha! Ha! Excellent! Ha! Ha!" Renouard laughed with stony eyes.
"And you proceed from one set to the other in this democratic age," the
Editor went on with unperturbed complacency. "That is if you are
clever enough. The only danger is in being too clever. And I think
something of the sort happened here. That swell I am speaking of got
himself into a mess. Apparently a very ugly mess of a financial
character. You will understand that Willie did not go into details with
me. They were not imparted to him with very great abundance either.
But a bad mess--something of the criminal order. Of course he was
innocent. But he had to quit all the same."
"Ha! Ha!" Renouard laughed again abruptly, staring as before. "So
there's one more big F in the tale."
"What do you mean?" inquired the Editor quickly, with an air as if his
patent were being infringed.
"I mean--Fool."
"No. I wouldn't say that. I wouldn't say that."
"Well--let him be a scoundrel then. What the devil do I care."
"But hold on! You haven't heard the end of the story."
Renouard, his hat on his head already, sat down with the disdainful
smile of a man who had discounted the moral of the story. Still