George ominously.

“You may report it to my grandmother’s maiden aunt,” said Sanders politely.

Half an hour later he saw the Hon. George rejoin the ship that brought him to Isisi Bassaro, and chuckled. George would go straight to the Administrator, and would receive a reception beside which a Sahara storm would be zephyrs of Araby.

At the same time Sanders was a little puzzled, and not a little hurt. There never had been a question of atrocities in his district, and he was puzzled to account for the rumours that had brought the “commissioner” on his tour of investigation–could it be a distorted account of Olari’s punishment?

“Go quickly to the ship, taking a book to the lord who has just gone from here,” was his command to a servant, and proceeded to scribble a note: “I am afraid,” he wrote, “I was rather rude to you–not understanding what the devil you were driving at. An overwhelming curiosity directs me to invite you to share my bungalow until such time as you are ready to conduct your investigation.”

The Hon. George read this with a self-satisfied smirk.

“The way to treat these fellows,” he said to the Elder Dempster captain, “is to show ‘em you’ll stand no nonsense. I thought he’d climb down.” The Elder Dempster captain, who knew Sanders by repute, smiled discreetly, but said nothing. Once more the special correspondent’s mountain of baggage was embarked in the surf boat, and the Hon. George waved a farewell to his friends on the steamer.

The Elder Dempster skipper, leaning over the side of his bridge, watched the surf boat rising and falling in the swell.

“There goes a man who’s looking for trouble,” he said, “and I wouldn’t take a half-share of the trouble he’s going to find for five hundred of the best. Is that blessed anchor up yet, Mr Simmons? Half ahead–set her due west, Mr What’s-your-name.”

It was something of a triumph for the Hon. George. There were ten uniformed policemen awaiting him on the smooth beach to handle his baggage, and Sanders came down to his garden gate to meet him.

“The fact of it is–” began Sanders awkwardly; but the magnanimous George raised his hand.

“Let bygones,” he said, “be bygones.”

Sanders was unaccountably annoyed by this generous display. Still more so was he when the correspondent refused to reopen the question of atrocities.

“As your guest,” said George solemnly, “I feel that it would be better for all concerned if I pursued an independent investigation. I shall endeavour as far as possible, to put myself in your place, to consider all extenuating circumstances–“

“Oh, have a gin-swizzle!” said Sanders rudely and impatiently; “you make me tired.”

“Look here,” he said later, “I will only ask you two questions. Where are these atrocities supposed to have taken place?”

“In the district of Lukati,” said the Hon. George.

“Olari.” thought Sanders. “Who was the victim?” he asked.

“There were several,” said the correspondent, and produced his notebook. “You understand that I’d really much rather not discuss the matter with you, but, since you insist,” he read, “Efembi of Wastambo.”

“Oh!” said Sanders, and his eyebrows rose.

“Kabindo of Machembi.”

“Oh, lord!” said Sanders.

The Hon. George read six other cases, and with everyone a line was wiped from Sanders’ forehead.

When the recital was finished the Commissioner said slowly–“I can make a statement to you which will save you a great deal of unnecessary trouble.”

“I would rather you didn’t,” said George, in his best judicial manner.

“Very good,” said Sanders; and went away whistling to order dinner.

Over the meal he put it to the correspondent: “There, are a number of people on this station who are friends of mine. I won’t disguise the fact from you–there is O’Neill, in charge of the Houssas; the doctor, Kennedy, the chap in charge of the survey party; and half a dozen more. Would you like to question them?”

“They are friends of yours?”

“Yes, personal friends.”

“Then,” said the Hon. George, gravely, “perhaps it would be better if I did not see them.”

“As you wish,” said Sanders.

With an escort of four Houssas, and fifty carriers recruited from the neighbouring villages, the Hon. George departed into the interior, and Sanders saw him off.

“I cannot, of course, guarantee your life,” he said, at parting, “and I must warn you that the Government will not be responsible for any injury that comes to you.”

“I understand,” said the Hon. George knowingly, “but I am not to be deterred. I come from a stock–“

“I dare say,” Sanders cut his genealogical reminiscences short; “but the last traveller who was ‘chopped’ in the bush was a D’Arcy, and his people came over with the Conqueror.”

The correspondent took the straight path to Lukati, and at the end of the third day’s march came to the village of Mfabo, where lived the great witch-doctor, Kelebi.

George pitched his camp outside the village, and, accompanied by his four Houssas, paid a call upon the chief, which was one of the first mistakes he made, for he should have sent for the chief to call upon him; and if he called upon anybody, he should have made his visit to the witch-doctor, who was a greater man than forty chiefs.

In course of time, however, he found himself squatting on the ground outside the doctor’s house, engaged, through the medium of the interpreter he had brought from Sierra Leone, in an animated conversation with the celebrated person.

“Tell him,” said George to his interpreter, “that I am a great white chief whose heart bleeds for the native.”

“Is he a good man?” asked George.

The witch-doctor, with the recollection of Sanders’ threat, said “No!”

“Why?” asked the Hon. George eagerly. “Does he beat the people?” Not only did he beat the people, explained the witch-doctor with relish, but there were times when he burnt them alive.

“This is a serious charge,” said George, wagging his head warningly; nevertheless he wrote with rapidity in his diary:

“Interviewed Kelebi, respected native doctor, who states:

“I have lived all my life in this district, and have never known so cruel a man as Sandi (Sanders). I remember once he caused a man to be drowned, the man’s name I forget; on another occasion he burned a worthy native alive for refusing to guide him and his Houssas through the forest. I also remember the time when he put a village to the fire, causing the people great suffering.

“The people of the country groan under his oppressions, for from time to time he comes demanding money and crops, and if he does not receive all that he asks for he flogs the villagers until they cry aloud.” (I rather suspect that there is truth in the latter statement, for Sanders finds no little difficulty in collecting the hut-tax, which is the Government’s due.)

George shook his head when he finished writing.

“This,” he said, “looks very bad.” He shook hands with the witch-doctor, and that aged villain looked surprised, and asked a question in the native tongue.

“You no be fit to dash him somet’ing,” said the interpreter.

“Dash him?”

“Give ‘um present–bottle gin.”

“Certainly not,” said George. “He may be satisfied with the knowledge that he is rendering a service to humanity; that he is helping the cause of a down-trodden people.” The witch-doctor said something in reply, which the interpreter very wisely refrained from putting into English.

“How go the investigations?” asked the captain of Houssas three weeks later.

“As far as I can gather,” said Sanders, “our friend is collecting a death-roll by the side of which the records of the Great Plague will read like an advertisement of a health resort.”

“Where is he now?”

“He has got to Lukati–and I am worried”; and Sanders looked it.

The Houssa captain nodded, for all manner of reports had come down from Lukati country. There had been good crops, and good crops mean idleness, and idleness means mischief. Also there had been devil dances, and the mild people of the Bokari district, which lies contiguous to Lukati, had lost women.

“I’ve got a free hand to nip rebellion in the bud,” Sanders reflected moodily; “and the chances point to rebellion–What do you say? Shall we make a report and wait for reinforcements, or shall we chance our luck?”

“It’s your funeral,” said the Houssa captain, “and I hate to advise you. If things go wrong you’ll get the kicks; but if it were mine I’d go, like a shot–naturally.”

“A hundred and forty men,” mused Sanders.

“And two Maxims,” suggested the other.

“We’ll go,” said Sanders; and half an hour later a bugle blared through the Houssas’ lines, and Sanders was writing a report to his chief in far-away Lagos.

The Hon. George, it may be said, had no idea that he was anything but welcome in the village of Lukati.