u are charged," said the magistrate, "with carrying an
unregistered rifle, and shooting without a license."

For answer I produced my certificate of registration and the big game
license we had paid for in Mombasa.

"Why didn't you say so before?" demanded the magistrate.

"I wasn't asked," said I.

"Case dismissed!" snapped his honor, and the court began to empty.

"Don't let it stop there!" urged Will excitedly. "That Heinie and his
boys have all committed perjury; charge them with it!"

I turned to the police officer.

"I charge all those witnesses with perjury!" I said.

"Oh," he laughed, "you can't charge natives with that. If the law
against perjury was strictly enforced the jails wouldn't hold a
fiftieth of them! They don't understand."

"But that blackguard with a beard--that rascal Schillingschen
understands!" said I. "Arrest him! Charge him with it!"

"That's for the court to do," he answered. "I've no authority."

The magistrate had gone.

"Who is the senior official in this town?" I demanded.

"There he goes," he answered. "That man in the white suit with the
round white topee is the collector."

So we three followed the collector to his office, arriving about two
minutes after the man himself. The Goanese clerk had been in the
court, and recognized me. He had not stayed to hear the end.

"Fines should be paid in the court, not here!" he intimated rudely.

We wasted no time with him but walked on through, and the collector
greeted us without obvious cordiality. He did not ask us to sit down.

"My friend here has come to tell you about that man Schillingschen,"
said Fred.

"I suppose you mean Professor Schillingschen!"

The collector was a clean-shaven man with a blue jowl that suffered
from blunt razors, and a temper rendered raw by native cooking. But he
had photos of feminine relations and a little house in a dreary Midland
street on his desk, and was no doubt loyal to the light he saw. I
wished we had Monty with us. One glimpse of the owner of a title that
stands written in the Doomsday Book would have outshone the halo of
Schillingschen's culture.

I rattled off what I had to say, telling the story from the moment I
started to follow Hassan from the hotel down to the end, omitting
nothing.

"Schillingschen is worse than a spy. He's a black-hearted, schemer.
He's planning to upset British rule in this Protectorate and make it
easy for the Germans to usurp!"

"This