He called again, but only the forest answered him. The chattering, noisy forest, all a-crackle with the movements of hidden things. Yet there was a fire burning which told of life. Sanders resumed his journey, first causing a quantity of food to be laid in a conspicuous place for the man who made the fire. He was on his way to take evidence concerning the disappearance of Cuthbert. It was the fourth journey of its kind he had attempted. There had been palavers innumerable. Bosambo, chief of the Ochori, had sorrowfully disgorged the presents he had received, and admitted his fault. "Lord!" he confessed, "when I was with the white man on the coast I learnt the trick of writing--it is a cursed gift--else all this trouble would not have come about. For, desiring to show my people how great a man I was, I wrote a letter in the English fashion, and sent it by messenger to the coast and thence to friends in Sierra Leone, telling them of my fortune. Thus the people in London came to know of the treasure of this land." Sanders, in a few illuminative sentences, conveyed his impression of Bosambo's genius. "You slave and son of a slave," he said, "whom I took from a prison to rule the Ochori, why did you deceive this white man, selling him lands that were not yours?" "Lord!" said Bosambo simply, "there was nothing else I could sell." But there was no clue here as to Cuthbert's whereabouts, nor at the mission station, nor amongst the carriers detained on suspicion. One man might have thrown light upon the situation, but Torrington was at home fulfilling the post of assistant examiner in mechanics at South Kensington (more in his element there) and filling in his spare time with lecturing on "The Migration of the Bantu Races." So that the end of Sanders' fourth quest was no more successful than the third, or the second, or the first, and he retraced his steps to headquarters, feeling somewhat depressed. He took the path he had previously traversed, and came upon the Death Camp late in the afternoon. The fire still burnt, but the food he had placed had disappeared. He hailed the hut in the native tongue, but no one answered him. He waited for a little while, and then gave orders for more food to be placed on the ground. "Poor devil!" said Sanders, and gave the order to march. He himself had taken half a dozen steps, when he stopped. At his feet something glittered in the fading light. He stooped and picked it up. It was an exploded cartridge. He examined it carefully, smelt it--it had been recently fired. Then he found another. They were Lee-Metford, and bore the mark "'07," which meant that they were less than a year old. He was still standing with the little brass cylinders in his hand, when Abiboo came to him. "Master," said the Houssa, "who ties monkeys to trees with ropes?" "Is that a riddle?" asked Sanders testily, for his mind was busy on this matter of cartridges. Abiboo for answer beckoned him.