He felt more normal.
The extraordinary thing was that he was able to put Walker out of his mind altogether.
So far as he was concerned he might never have existed.
He returned late, hot after his ride, and bathed again.
Then he sat on the verandah, smoking his pipe, and looked at the day declining over the lagoon.
In the sunset the lagoon, rosy and purple and green, was very beautiful.
He felt at peace with the world and with himself.
When the cook came out to say that dinner was ready and to ask whether he should wait, Mackintosh smiled at him with friendly eyes. He looked at his watch.
“It’s half-past seven.
Better not wait.
One can’t tell when the boss’ll be back.”
The boy nodded, and in a moment Mackintosh saw him carry across the yard a bowl of steaming soup.
He got up lazily, went into the dining-room, and ate his dinner.
Had it happened?
The uncertainty was amusing and Mackintosh chuckled in the silence.
The food did not seem so monotonous as usual, and even though there was Hamburger steak, the cook’s invariable dish when his poor invention failed him, it tasted by some miracle succulent and spiced.
After dinner he strolled over lazily to his bungalow to get a book.
He liked the intense stillness, and now that the night had fallen the stars were blazing in the sky.
He shouted for a lamp and in a moment the Chink pattered over on his bare feet, piercing the darkness with a ray of light. He put the lamp on the desk and noiselessly slipped out of the room.
Mackintosh stood rooted to the floor, for there, half hidden by untidy papers, was his revolver.
His heart throbbed painfully, and he broke into a sweat.
It was done then.
He took up the revolver with a shaking hand.
Four of the chambers were empty.
He paused a moment and looked suspiciously out into the night, but there was no one there.
He quickly slipped four cartridges into the empty chambers and locked the revolver in his drawer.
He sat down to wait.
An hour passed, a second hour passed.
There was nothing.
He sat at his desk as though he were writing, but he neither wrote nor read.
He merely listened.
He strained his ears for a sound travelling from a far distance.
At last he heard hesitating footsteps and knew it was the Chinese cook.
“Ah-Sung,” he called.
The boy came to the door.
“Boss velly late,” he said.
“Dinner no good.”
Mackintosh stared at him, wondering whether he knew what had happened, and whether, when he knew, he would realise on what terms he and Walker had been.
He went about his work, sleek, silent, and smiling, and who could tell his thoughts?
“I expect he’s had dinner on the way, but you must keep the soup hot at all events.”
The words were hardly out of his mouth when the silence was suddenly broken into by a confusion, cries, and a rapid patter of naked feet.
A number of natives ran into the compound, men and women and children; they crowded round Mackintosh and they all talked at once.
They were unintelligible.
They were excited and frightened and some of them were crying.
Mackintosh pushed his way through them and went to the gateway.
Though he had scarcely understood what they said he knew quite well what had happened.
And as he reached the gate the dog-cart arrived.
The old mare was being led by a tall Kanaka, and in the dog-cart crouched two men, trying to hold Walker up.
A little crowd of natives surrounded it.
The mare was led into the yard and the natives surged in after it.