The tangled web is only woven when _first_
we practise to deceive. Later on the facility is greater, the handling
superior, and the web runs smooth and straight. Seymour Michael was
apparently no novice at this sort of thing. He was even at that moment
making mental note of the fact that up-country mails were in a state of
disorganisation, and a letter which was never written may easily be made
to have miscarried later on.
But even he could not foresee everything--no one can. Not even the
righteous man, much less the liar.
"Do you mean to say," pursued the newcomer, "that you are not writing to
your family about it--only to the Company?"
"That is all."
"Rum chap you are, Michael," said the other, lighting a cheroot.
"Heartless beggar I take it."
"Not at all. The simple fact is that I have no one to write to. I only
possess one or two distant relatives, and they would probably be rather
sorry than otherwise to have the report contradicted."
The younger officer--a mere boy--with a beardless, happy face, walked to
the door of the bungalow.
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