'You wouldn't have been two years ago.'
'We grow wiser as we grow older,' retorted Edward, gaily.
Bateman took a glance at him. Edward was dressed in a suit of shabby white ducks, none too clean, and a large straw hat of native make. He was thinner than he had been, deeply burned by the sun, and he was certainly better looking than ever. But there was something in his appearance that disconcerted Bateman. He walked with a new jauntiness; there was a carelessness in his demeanour, a gaiety about nothing in particular, which Bateman could not precisely blame, but which exceedingly puzzled him.
'I'm blest if I can see what he's got to be so darned cheerful about,' he said to himself.
They arrived at the hotel and sat on the terrace. A Chinese boy brought them cocktails. Edward was most anxious to hear all the news of Chicago and bombarded his friend with eager questions. His interest was natural and sincere. But the odd thing was that it seemed equally divided among a multitude of subjects. He was as eager to know how Bateman's father was as what Isabel was doing. He talked of her without a shade of embarrassment, but she might just as well have been his sister as his promised wife; and before Bateman had done analysing the exact meaning of Edward's remarks he found that the conversation had drifted to his own work and the buildings his father had lately erected. He was determined to bring the conversation back to Isabel and was looking for the occasion when he saw Edward wave his hand cordially. A man was advancing towards them on the terrace, but Bateman's back was turned to him and he could not see him.
'Come and sit down,' said Edward gaily.
The new-comer approached. He was a very tall, thin man, in white ducks, with a fine head of curly white hair. His face was thin too, long, with a large, hooked nose and a beautiful, expressive mouth.
'This is my old friend Bateman Hunter. I've told you about him,' said Edward, his constant smile breaking on his lips.
'I'm pleased to meet you, Mr Hunter. I used to know your father.'
The stranger held out his hand and took the young man's in a strong, friendly grasp. It was not till then that Edward mentioned the other's name.
'Mr Arnold Jackson.'
Bateman turned white and he felt his hands grow cold. This was the forger, the convict, this was Isabel's uncle. He did not know what to say. He tried to conceal his confusion. Arnold Jackson looked at him with twinkling eyes.
'I daresay my name is familiar to you.'
Bateman did not know whether to say yes or no, and what made it more awkward was that both Jackson and Edward seemed to be amused. It was bad enough to have forced on him the acquaintance of the one man on the island he would rather have avoided, but worse to discern that he was being made a fool of. Perhaps, however, he had reached this conclusion too quickly, for Jackson, without a pause, added:
'I understand you're very friendly with the Longstaffes. Mary Longstaffe is my sister.'
Now Bateman asked himself if Arnold Jackson could think him ignorant of the most terrible scandal that Chicago had ever known. But Jackson put his hand on Edward's shoulder.
'I can't sit down, Teddie,' he said. 'I'm busy. But you two boys had better come up and dine to-night.'
'That'll be fine,' said Edward.
'It's very kind of you, Mr Jackson,' said Bateman, frigidly, 'but I'm here for so short a time; my boat sails to- morrow, you know; I think if you'll forgive me, I won't come.'
'Oh, nonsense. I'll give you a native dinner. My wife's a wonderful cook. Teddie will show you the way. Come early so as to see the sunset. I can give you both a shake-down if you like.'
'Of course we'll come,' said Edward. 'There's always the devil of a row in the hotel on the night a boat arrives and we can have a good yarn up at the bungalow.'
'I can't let you off, Mr Hunter,' Jackson continued with the utmost cordiality. 'I want to hear all about Chicago and Mary.'
He nodded and walked away before Bateman could say another word.
'We don't take refusals in Tahiti,' laughed Edward. 'Besides, you'll get the best dinner on the island.'
'What did he mean by saying his wife was a good cook? I happen to know his wife's in Geneva.'
'That's a long way off for a wife, isn't it?' said Edward. 'And it's a long time since he saw her. I guess it's another wife he's talking about.'
For some time Bateman was silent. His face was set in grave lines. But looking up he caught the amused look in Edward's eyes, and he flushed darkly.
'Arnold Jackson is a despicable rogue,' he said.
'I greatly fear he is,' answered Edward, smiling.
'I don't see how any decent man can have anything to do with him.'
'Perhaps I'm not a decent man.'
'Do you see much of him, Edward?'
'Yes, quite a lot. He's adopted me as his nephew.'
Bateman leaned forward and fixed Edward with his searching eyes.
'Do you like him?'
'Very much.'
