One day, when Carter had just finished writing an enthusiastic report on the industry of his people, and the whole-hearted way they were taking up and supporting the new rgime, the chief of the village, whom Carter had facetiously named O'Leary (his born name was indeed Olari), came to him. Carter at the moment was walking through the well-swept street of the village with his hands in his coat pockets and his big white helmet tipped on the back of his head because the sun was setting at his back. "Father," said the Chief Olari, "I have brought these people to see you." He indicated with a wave of his hand six strange warriors carrying their shields and spears, who looked at him dispassionately. Carter nodded. "They desire," said Olari, "to see the wonderful little black fetish that my father carries in his pocket that they may tell their people of its powers." "Tell your people," said Carter good-humouredly, "that I have not got the fetish with me--if they will come to my hut I will show them its wonders." Whereupon Olari lifted his spear and struck at Carter, and the six warriors sprang forward together. Carter fought gamely, but he was unarmed. When Sanders heard the news of his subordinate's death he did not faint or fall into a fit of insane cursing. He was sitting on his broad verandah at headquarters when the dusty messenger came. He rose with pursed lips and frowning eyes, fingering the letter--this came from Tollemache, inspector of police at Bokari--and paced the verandah. "Poor chap, poor chap!" was all that he said. He sent no message to Olari; he made no preparations for a punitive raid; he went on signing documents, inspecting Houssas, attending dinner parties, as though Carter had never lived or died. All these things the spies of Olari reported, and the chief was thankful. Lukati being two hundred miles from headquarters, through a savage and mountainous country, an expedition was no light undertaking, and the British Government, rich as it is, cannot afford to spend a hundred thousand pounds to avenge the death of a subordinate official. Of this fact Sanders was well aware, so he employed his time in collecting and authenticating the names of Carter's assassins. When he had completed them he went a journey seventy miles into the bush to the great witch-doctor Kelebi, whose name was known throughout the coast country from Dakka to the Eastern borders of Togoland. "Here are the names of men who have put shame upon me," he said; "but principally Olari, chief of the Lukati people." "I will put a spell upon Olari," said the witch-doctor; "a very bad spell, and upon these men. The charge will be six English pounds." Sanders paid the money, and "dashed" two bottles of square-face and a piece of proper cloth. Then he went back to headquarters. One night through the village of Lukati ran a whisper, and the men muttered the news with fearful shivers and backward glances. "Olari, the chief, is cursed!"