At the time he thought Devlin a creature of his own making, fresh and new. Then came The Island, the French gold, and John Coxon, bitter and vengeful. Another year, and the hunt for the letters of the Jesuit priest – the porcelain adventure – and Coxon had been there also. And it became apparent that Devlin had not cleared all his past as Dandon had assumed. Then came the diamond and the South Sea débâcle less than a year gone. Coxon’s pistol in his back hardly seemed a coincidence. When you meet a smiling soul, a devil-may-care fellow, you hope this is how they are, that they are genuinely free from mortal pains. And then they become too drunk or too sober and you discover they carry the blight of chains and stones that all men drag behind them. Did the Lord really die at thirty-three? What use that to any man? A ministry of youth? Or is it that after that age only suffering is to be expected. Never mind. Dandon was far too sober to appreciate any of it.
