“Sometimes we were apart ten days at a time hunting,” said Etcham. “Stone is not a talking man. He gave me no account of his doings and Hamed Burghash keeps a still tongue and a tight hold on the men.” “You have examined these heads?” Van Rieten asked. “Minutely,” said Etcham. Van Rieten took out his notebook. He was a methodical chap. He tore out a leaf, folded it and divided it equally into three pieces. He gave one to me and one to Etcham. “Just for a test of my impressions,” he said, “I want each of us to write separately just what he is most reminded of by these heads. Then I want to compare the writings.” I handed Etcham a pencil and he wrote. Then he handed the pencil back to me and I wrote. “Read the three,” said Van Rieten, handing me his piece. Van Rieten had written: “An old Balunda witch-doctor.” Etcham had written: “An old Mang-Battu fetish-man.” I had written: “An old Katongo magician.” “There!” Van Rieten exclaimed. “Look at that! There is nothing Wagabi or Batwa or Wambuttu or Wabotu about these heads. Nor anything pigmy either.” “I thought as much,” said Etcham. “And you say he did not have them before?” “To a certainty he did not,” Etcham asserted. “It is worth following up,” said Van Rieten. “I’ll go with you. And first of all, I’ll do my best to save Stone.” He put out his hand and Etcham clasped it silently. He was grateful all over. IV Nothing but Etcham’s fever of solicitude could have taken him in five days over the track. It took him eight days to retrace with full knowledge of it and our party to help. We could not have done it in seven, and Etcham urged us on, in a repressed fury of anxiety, no mere fever of duty to his chief, but a real ardor of devotion, a glow of personal adoration for Stone which blazed under his dry conventional exterior and showed in spite of him. We found Stone well cared for. Etcham had seen to a good, high thorn _zareeba_ round the camp, the huts were well built and thatched and Stone’s was as good as their resources would permit. Hamed Burghash was not named after two Seyyids for nothing. He had in him the making of a sultan. He had kept the Mang-Battu together, not a man had slipped off, and he had kept them in order. Also he was a deft nurse and a faithful servant. The two other Zanzabaris had done some creditable hunting. Though all were hungry, the camp was far from starvation. Stone was on a canvas cot and there was a sort of collapsible camp-stool-table, like a Turkish tabouret, by the cot. It had a water-bottle and some vials on it and Stone’s watch, also his razor in its case.