rather a strenuous time, haven’t you?”
“We have rather,” she replied. “Isn’t it a dreadful thing to have lost poor Mr. Westall?”
“Yes,” he replied, as they turned away from the lagoon and began to walk towards the fort. “Shocking affair. Still, fortune of war, you know. Can’t make omelettes without breaking eggs. And here is Mr. Cook, in the thick of the bobbery, as usual. What a fellow you are, Cook! Always in hot water.”
As he shook Osmond’s hand heartily, the latter replied: “Well, the bobbery wasn’t of my making, this time. I found it ready made and just bore a hand. By the way, what schooner is that out in the roads?”
“That,” replied Darley, “is an ancient yacht named the Primula—a lovely old craft—sails like a witch. But she has come down in the world now. We met her coming up from the leeward coast and brought her in here.”
“Brought her in? Is she in custody, then?”
“Well, we brought her in to overhaul her and make some inquiries. There is just a suspicion that she has been concerned in the gun-running that has been going on. But we haven’t found anything up to the present. She seems to be full up with ordinary, legitimate cargo.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Osmond.
“Why ‘ha’?” demanded Darley with a quick look at Osmond. “Do you know anything about her?”
“Let us hear some more,” said Osmond. “Is there a Welshman named Jones on board?”
“There is. He’s the skipper, purser, and super cargo all combined.”
“Have you looked through her manifest?”
“I have; and I’ve jotted down some notes of the items of her lading.”
“Is there any ivory on board?”
“Yes,” replied Darley, with growing excitement.
“Three large crates and a big canvas bag?”
“Yes!”
“Containing in all, thirty-nine large tusks and fifty-one scribellos?”
Darley dragged a pocket-book out of his pocket and feverishly turned over the leaves. “Yes, by Jove!” he fairly shouted. “The very numbers. Now, what have you got to tell us?”
“I think you can take it that the ivory and probably the rest of the lading, too, is stolen property.”
“Why,” exclaimed Betty, “that must be your ivory, Jim.”
Darley flashed an astonished glance at her and then looked inquiringly at Osmond. “Is that so?” he asked.
“I have no doubt that it is,” the latter replied. “But if it should happen that there is a man on board named Sam Winter—”
“There is,” interrupted Darley.
“And another named Simmons and others named Foat, Bradley, and Darker, I think, if you introduce me to them, that we shall get the whole story. And as to the gun-running, I can’t make a voluntary statement, but if you were to put me in the witness-box, I should have to tell you all that I know; and I may say that I know a good deal. Will that do, for the present?”
Darley smiled complacently. “It seems like a pretty straight tip,” said he. “I will just skip on board, now, and take possession of the manifest; and if you will give me that list of names again, I will see if those men are on board, and bring them ashore, if they are. You will be staying at the fort, I suppose? There are only Cockeram and the doctor there.”
“Yes,” said Betty, “I shall ask Mr. Cockeram to put him up, for tonight, at any rate.”
“Very well,” said Darley, “then I shall see you again later. And now I will be off and lay the train.”
He touched his cap, and as they emerged into an open space before the gateway of the fort, he turned and walked away briskly down a long, shady avenue of wild fig-trees that led towards the shore.
Quittah fort was a shabby-looking, antique structure adapted to the conditions of primitive warfare. It was entered by an arched gateway graced by two ancient cannon set up as posts and guarded by a Hausa sentry in a blue serge uniform and a scarlet fez. Towards the gateway Osmond and Betty directed their steps, and as they approached, the sentry sprang smartly to attention and presented arms; whereupon Betty marched in with impressive dignity and two tiny fingers raised to the peak of her helmet.
“This seems to be the way up,” she said, turning towards a mouldering wooden staircase, as a supercilious-looking pelican waddled towards them and a fish-eagle on a perch in a corner uttered a loud yell. “What a queer place it is! It looks like a menagerie. I wonder if there is anyone at home.”
She tripped up the stairs, followed by Osmond and watched suspiciously by an assemblage of storks, coots, rails, and other birds which were strolling about at large in the quadrangle, and came out on an open space at the top of a corner bastion. Just as they reached this spot a man came hurrying out of a shabby building which occupied one side of the square; and at the first glance Osmond recognized him as the officer who had come to Adaffia to execute the warrant on the day when he had buried poor Larkom. The recognition was mutual, for as soon as he had saluted Betty, the officer turned to him and held out his hand.
“Larkom, by Jove!” said he.
“My name is Cook,” Osmond corrected.
“Oh,” said the other; “glad you set me right, because I have been going to send you a note. You remember me—Cockeram. I came down to Adaffia, you know, about that poor chap, Osmond.”
“I remember. You said you had been going to write to me.”
“Yes. I was going to send you something that I thought would interest you. I may as well give it to you now.” He began to rummage in his pockets and eventually brought forth a bulging letter-case, the very miscellaneous contents of which he proceeded to sort out. “It’s about poor Osmond,” he continued, disjointedly, and still turning over a litter of papers. “I felt that you would like to see it. Poor chap! It was such awfully rough luck.”
“What was?” asked Osmond.
“Why, you remember,” replied Cockeram, suspending his search to look up, “that I had a warrant to arrest him. It seemed that he was wanted for some sort of jewel robbery and there had been a regular hue-and-cry after him. Then he managed to slip away to sea and had just contrived to get into hiding at Adaffia when the fever got him. Frightful hard lines!”
“Why hard lines?” demanded Osmond.
“Why? Because he was innocent.”
“Innocent!” exclaimed Osmond, staring at the officer in amazement.
“Yes, innocent. Had nothing whatever to do with the robbery. No one can make out why on earth he scooted.”
As Cockeram made his astounding statement, Betty turned deathly pale. “Is it quite certain that he was innocent?” she asked in a low, eager tone.
“Perfectly,”
