In their interest in the conversation neither of the speakers had noticed the little figure which crept into the darkness of the hut behind them, nor did they see it when it slunk noiselessly out again. It was little Buulaoo, the chief’s son by one of his younger wives—a vindictive, degenerate little rascal who hated Tambudza, and was ever seeking opportunities to spy upon her and report her slightest breach of custom to his father. “Come, then,” said Tarzan quickly, “let us be on our way.” This Buulaoo did not hear, for he was already legging it up the village street to where his hideous sire guzzled native beer, and watched the evolutions of the frantic dancers leaping high in the air and cavorting wildly in their hysterical capers. So it happened that as Tarzan and Tambudza sneaked warily from the village and melted into the Stygian darkness of the jungle two lithe runners took their way in the same direction, though by another trail. When they had come sufficiently far from the village to make it safe for them to speak above a whisper, Tarzan asked the old woman if she had seen aught of a white woman and a little child. “Yes, bwana,” replied Tambudza, “there was a woman with them and a little child—a little white piccaninny. It died here in our village of the fever and they buried it!” CHAPTER XII. A Black Scoundrel When Jane Clayton regained consciousness she saw Anderssen standing over her, holding the baby in his arms. As her eyes rested upon them an expression of misery and horror overspread her countenance. “What is the matter?” he asked. “You ban sick?” “Where is my baby?” she cried, ignoring his questions. Anderssen held out the chubby infant, but she shook her head. “It is not mine,” she said. “You knew that it was not mine. You are a devil like the Russian.” Anderssen’s blue eyes stretched in surprise. “Not yours!” he exclaimed. “You tole me the kid aboard the Kincaid ban your kid.” “Not this one,” replied Jane dully. “The other. Where is the other? There must have been two. I did not know about this one.” “There vasn’t no other kid. Ay tank this ban yours. Ay am very sorry.” Anderssen fidgeted about, standing first on one foot and then upon the other. It was perfectly evident to Jane that he was honest in his protestations of ignorance of the true identity of the child. Presently the baby commenced to crow, and bounce up and down in the Swede’s arms, at the same time leaning forward with little hands out-reaching toward the young woman. She could not withstand the appeal, and with a low cry she sprang to her feet and gathered the baby to her breast. For a few minutes she wept silently, her face buried in the baby’s soiled little dress. The first shock of disappointment that the tiny thing had not been her beloved Jack was giving way to a great hope that after all some miracle had occurred to snatch her baby from Rokoff’s hands at the last instant before the Kincaid sailed from England.