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distractions than Baldwin or the servants at the Hôtel Lafayette, so he only terrorised his small son by fits and starts, leaving him happily alone for comparatively extended periods. The seven months were nearly up when Tony got a letter from “the Boss.” It was quite a cheerful letter, and said that his mother was much better than he expected, and that as she was so glad to see him he would stay with her some time longer; he did not yet know when he would be back in New Zealand. That was nearly all; he hoped Tony was getting on all right, and so on. . . . Tony was dazed. He had to read that simple letter three or four times before the sense soaked in. He had been leaning so hard upon the thought of Robertson’s return within a week or so that at first his mind refused to adjust itself to the altered conditions. Then one by one his thoughts began to emerge from their chaos. Baldwin had ridden into town, or he would not have had time to collect them. “Oh, this is hell,” he thought, and the grey grass jumped uncertainly before his eyes. “I’ll try hard to hang on here, but it’ll be the limit, pretty near. I’m—I’m beastly tired too. . . . Worse than Cairo, for the work is harder. . . . If it wasn’t the Boss’s home I’d set a match to it some night when Baldwin’s snoring, and get out—but it’s no good. . . And the worst of it is I am scared. I’ve got to hold tight to myself, not to wince away like a colt under the whip whenever he moves suddenly. . . . Oh, damn him, there he is. . . ."

He stuffed the letter into his pocket and moved off, not before Baldwin had seen him and enquired what he was going to sleep for. It was the lunch-hour, but that made no difference; Baldwin had come back from town more ready than usual to nag. Tony had just enough sense and self-control left to say nothing, but it was getting harder every day.