Aloud he observed that as long as a man had not given up correspondence he could not be looked upon as lost.

Fugitive criminals had been tracked in that way by justice, he reminded his friend; then suddenly changed the bearing of the subject somewhat by asking if Renouard had heard from his people lately, and if every member of his large tribe was well and happy.
"Yes, thanks." The tone was curt, as if repelling a liberty.

Renouard did not like being asked about his people, for whom he had a profound and remorseful affection.

He had not seen a single human being to whom he was related, for many years, and he was extremely different from them all.
On the very morning of his arrival from his island he had gone to a set of pigeon-holes in Willie Dunster's outer office and had taken out from a compartment labelled "Malata" a very small accumulation of envelopes, a few addressed to himself, and one addressed to his assistant, all to the care of the firm, W.Dunster and Co.

As opportunity offered, the firm used to send them on to Malata either by a man-of-war schooner going on a cruise, or by some trading craft proceeding that way.