Olari heard the tidings from his women, and came out of his hut into the moonlight, raving horribly. The next day he sickened, and on the fifth day he was near to dead and suffering terrible pains, as also were six men who helped in the slaying of Carter. That they did not die was no fault of the witch-doctor, who excused his failure on account of the great distance between himself and his subjects. As for Sanders, he was satisfied, saying that even the pains were cheap at the price, and that it would give him great satisfaction to write "finis" to Olari with his own hand. A week after this, Abiboo, Sanders' favourite servant, was taken ill. There was no evidence of fever or disease, only the man began to fade as it were. Making inquiries, Sanders discovered that Abiboo had offended the witch-doctor Kelebi, and that the doctor had sent him the death message. Sanders took fifty Houssas into the bush and interviewed the witch-doctor. "I have reason," he said, "for believing you to be a failure as a slayer of men." "Master," said Kelebi in extenuation, "my magic cannot cross mountains, otherwise Olari and his friends would have died." "That is as it may be," said Sanders. "I am now concerned with magic nearer at hand, and I must tell you that the day after Abiboo dies I will hang you." "Father," said Kelebi emphatically, "under those circumstances Abiboo shall live." Sanders gave him a sovereign, and rode back to headquarters, to find his servant on the high road to recovery. I give you this fragment of Sanders' history, because it will enable you to grasp the peculiar environment in which Sanders spent the greater part of his life, and because you will appreciate all the better the irony of the situation created by the coming of the Hon. George Tackle. Sanders was taking breakfast on the verandah of his house. From where he sat he commanded across the flaming beauties of his garden a view of a broad, rolling, oily sea, a golden blaze of light under the hot sun. There was a steamer lying three miles out (only in five fathoms of water at that), and Sanders, through his glasses, recognised her as the Elder Dempster boat that brought the monthly mail. Since there were no letters on his table, and the boat had been "in" for two hours, he gathered that there was no mail for him, and was thankful, for he had outlived the sentimental period of life when letters were pleasant possibilities. Having no letters, he expected no callers, and the spectacle of the Hon. George being carried in a hammock into his garden was astonishing. The Hon. George carefully alighted, adjusted his white pith helmet, smoothed the creases from his immaculate ducks, and mounted the steps that led to the stoep. "How do?" said the visitor. "My name is Tackle--George Tackle." He smiled, as though to say more was an insult to his hearer's intelligence. Sanders bowed, a little ceremoniously for him. He felt that his visitor expected this.