shy, silent
man who could not be induced to talk of the land he loved so dearly.
They might have voted him a bore, but for the fact that he so completely
effaced himself they had little opportunity for forming so definite a
judgment.

It was on the second night of his visit to Newbury Grange that they had
cornered him in the billiard-room. It was the beautiful daughter of Lord
Castleberry who, with the audacity of youth, forced him, metaphorically
speaking, into a corner, from whence there was no escape.

"We've been very patient, Mr. Sanders," she pouted; "we are all dying to
hear of your wonderful country, and Bosambo, and fetishes and things,
and you haven't said a word."

"There is little to say," he smiled; "perhaps if I told you--something
about fetishes...?"

There was a chorus of approval.

Sanders had gained enough courage from his experience before the
Ethnological Society, and began to talk.

"Wait," said Lady Betty; "let's have all these glaring lights out--they
limit our imagination."

There was a click, and, save for one bracket light behind Sanders, the
room was in darkness. He was grateful to the girl, and well rewarded her
and the party that sat round on chairs, on benches around the edge of
the billiard-table, listening. He told them stories ... curious,
unbelievable; of ghost palavers, of strange rites, of mysterious
messages carried across the great space of forests.

"Tell us about fetishes," said the girl's voice.

Sanders smiled. There rose to his eyes the spectacle of a hot and weary
people bringing in a giant tree through the forest, inch by inch.

And he told the story of the fetish of the Akasava.

"And I said," he concluded, "that I would come from the end of the
world----"

He stopped suddenly and stared straight ahead. In the faint light they
saw him stiffen like a setter.

"What is wrong?"

Lord Castleberry was on his feet, and somebody clicked on the lights.

But Sanders did not notice.

He was looking towards the end of the room, and his face was set and
hard.

"O, M'fosa," he snarled, "O, dog!"

They heard the strange staccato of the Bomongo tongue and wondered.

* * * * *

Lieutenant Tibbetts, helmetless, his coat torn, his lip bleeding,
offered no resistance when they strapped him to the smooth high pole.
Almost at his feet lay the dead Houssa orderly whom M'fosa had struck
down from behind.

In a wide circle, their faces hal