The king had been busy. Rough boards had been erected at every street corner. There was a “Downing Street,” a “Fifth Avenue,” a “Sacramento Street,” a “Piccadilly,” and a “Broadway.”

“These,” explained Cala, “are certain devil marks which my king has put up to warn witches and spirits, and they have much virtue, for, lord, my son, who was troubled with pains in his stomach, was there”–he indicated “Broadway”–“and the pain left him.”

“It would,” said Sanders.

Tobolaka rose from his throne and offered his hand.

“I am sorry, Mr. Sanders,” he began, “you did not give us notice of your coming.”

“When I come again, Tobolaka,” said Sanders, staring with his passionate grey eyes at the white clad figure, “you shall come to the beach to meet me, for that is the custom.”

“But not the law,” smiled the king.

“My custom is the law,” said Sanders. He dropped his voice till it was so soft as to be little above a whisper.

“Tobolaka,” he said, “I hanged your father and, I believe, his father. Now I tell you this–that you shall play this king game just so long as it amuses your people, but you play it without soldiers. And if you gather an army for whatever purpose, I shall come and burn your city and send you the way of your ancestors, for there is but one king in this land, and I am his chief minister.”

The face of the king twitched and his eyes fell.

“Lord,” he said, using the conventional “Iwa” of his people, “I meant no harm. I desired only to do honour to my wife.”

“You shall honour her best,” said Sanders, “by honouring me.”

“Cicero says–” began Tobolaka in English.

“Damn Cicero!” snapped Sanders in the same language.

He stayed the day, and Tobolaka did his best to make reparation for his discourtesy. Towards evening Sanders found himself listening to complaints. Tobolaka had his troubles,

“I called a palaver of all chiefs,” he explained, “desiring to inaugurate a system analogous to county councils. Therefore I sent to the Akasava, the N’gombi, and the Ochori, their chiefs. Now, sir,” said the injured Tobolaka, relapsing into English, “none of these discourteous fellows–“

“Speak in the language of the land, Tobolaka,” said Sanders wearily.

“Lord, no man came,” said the king; “nor have they sent tribute. And I desired to bring them to my marriage feast that my wife should be impressed; and, since I am to be married in the Christian style, it would be well that these little chiefs should see with their eyes the practice of God-men.”

“Yet I cannot force these chiefs to your palaver, Tobolaka,” said Sanders.

“Also, lord,” continued the chief, “one of these men is a Mohammedan and an evil talker, and when I sent to him to do homage to me he replied with terrible words, such as I would not say again.”

“You must humour your chiefs, king,” said Sanders, and gave the discomfited monarch no warmer cheer.

Sanders left next day for headquarters, and in his hurry forgot to inquire further into the forthcoming wedding feast,

“And the sooner he marries the better,” he said to the Houssa captain. “Nothing tires me quite so much as a Europeanised–Americanised native. It is as indecent a spectacle as a niggerised white man.”

“He’ll settle down; there’s no stake in a country like a wife,” said the Houssa. “I shouldn’t wonder if he doesn’t forget old man Cicero. Which chief’s daughter is to be honoured?”

Sanders shook his head.

“I don’t know, and I’m not interested. He might make a good chief–I’m prejudiced against him, I admit. As likely as not he’ll chuck his job after a year if they don’t ‘chop’ him–they’re uncertain devils, these Akasavas. Civilisation has a big call for him; he’s always getting letters from England and America.”

The Houssa captain bit off the end of a cigar. “I hope he doesn’t try Cicero on Bosambo,” he said, significantly.

The next day brought the mail–an event. Usually Sanders was down on the beach to meet the surf-boat that carries the post, but on this occasion he was interviewing two spies who had arrived with urgent news. Therefore he did not see the passenger whom the Castle Queen landed till she stood on the stoep before the open door of the residency.

Sanders, glancing up as a shadow fell across the wooden stoep, rose and temporarily dismissed the two men with a gesture. Then he walked slowly to meet the girl. She was small and pretty in a way, rather flushed by the exertion of walking from the beach to the house. Her features were regular, her mouth was small, her chin a little weak. She seemed ill at ease.

“How do you do?” said Sanders, bewildered by the unexpectedness of the vision. He drew a chair for her, and she sank into it with a grateful little smile, which she instantly checked, as though she had set herself an unpleasant task and was not to be conciliated or turned aside by any act of courtesy on his part.

“And exactly what brings you to this unlikely place?” he asked.

“I’m Millie Tavish” she said. “I suppose you’ve heard about me?”

She spoke with a curious accent. When she told him her name he recognised it as Scottish, on which American was imposed.

“I haven’t heard about you,” he said. “I presume you are going up-country to a missionary station. I’m sorry–I do not like lady missionaries in the country.”

She laughed a shrill, not unmusical laugh. “Oh, I guess I’m not a missionary,” she said complacently.