kose_. The only story I have to tell is what I told to the
_Amapolise_, and he who now sits here"--meaning Kendrew. "But it is no
story."

He was right there, in that like the tale of the empty bottle there was
nothing in it. His master had given him some final orders after supper,
and he had gone over to the huts for the night. He was employed in the
stable then.

And no one had opened the stable?

No, it was locked, and his master had the key. They had been obliged to
break open the door in the morning to get at the horses.

There you see, there was nothing in this story, but then I had never
expected there would be. What I wanted was to watch the face and note
the manner of its narrator. This I had done, and keenly, with the
result that I felt convinced that the boy knew no more about Hensley's
disappearance than I did myself. Upon this the police sergeant
subsequently waxed somewhat superior. He resented the idea that what
had baffled the wit of the police and native detectives combined might
stand the slightest chance of being cleared up by me. However I didn't
take offence, although my opinion of the abilities of his force was but
medium, and that of the native detectives nowhere, though this applied
more to their morality than ingenuity. It happened that I was in a
position to know something of the methods of the latter in "getting up"
cases.

"Well good-bye, Glanton," said Kendrew, as we shook hands. "Devilish
glad you came over in a friendly way. And, I say--mind you repeat the
operation and that often. I like a jolly, good sort of neighbourly
neighbour."

I promised him I would, as I climbed into the saddle--and the great
krantz seemed to echo back our cheery good-bye in ghostly refrain.

I liked Kendrew, I decided as I rode along. He struck me as a lively,
cheery sort of fellow with lots of fun in him, and not an atom of harm.
Decidedly as a neighbour he would be an improvement on his poor old
relative, who although a good chap enough had always been a bit of a
fossil. That's one of the advantages of the up-country or frontier
life, you take a man as you find him and no make believe, or stiffness
or ceremony. If he's a good fellow he is, and all the better. If he
isn't why then he isn't, and you needn't have any more to do with him
than you want, or make any pretence about it.

In the solitude as I took my way through the thorns the recollection of
Hensley came upon me again, and I