Upon the afternoon on which Guy Hardcastle had been so busily engaged with the ostrich hunt, Mr. Blakeney and Tom had returned about four o’clock. By six o’clock, when it was getting dark, they were--although expecting him in camp at any moment--by no means anxious about him. Mr. Blakeney had heard from Poeskop that Guy had gone out after an ostrich, and ostrich hunting is always a difficult and oftentimes a long and tedious business. Night fell, supper was over, and still the lad tarried. A rifle was now discharged at intervals, and the fires were replenished, so that the wanderer might be guided to the safe haven of the camp. Still no Guy. There was nothing more to be done that night. They imagined that he had wandered farther away than he had intended, and was camping out somewhere. The veldt was not a waterless one, and there was therefore little anxiety on that score. Still, as morning came, Mr. Blakeney was determined to lose no time in going out in search. Something might have happened. The lad might have been thrown, or have suffered some other casualty. After a hurried breakfast, taking with them Poeskop, Mr. Blakeney and his son rode out, Poeskop carefully following the spoor made by Guy’s pony on the previous day. It took them a long time to puzzle out the intricacies of the spoor, and trace the devious wanderings of the ostrich hunt. But they came in time to the place where Guy had killed the bird. Then they traced him to the valley among the hills where he had camped. Here they at once discovered other spoor as well as Guy’s. To the Englishmen, accustomed as they were to veldt life, it was difficult to understand what had actually happened. To Poeskop the whole story was plain enough. He searched about quietly for a few minutes, then he told his tale. "Karl Engelbrecht has been here," he said suddenly. "Karl Engelbrecht!" repeated Mr. Blakeney. "Surely you are mistaken, Poeskop?" "No, baas," reiterated the Bushman; "there is no mistake. Karl has been here. I know his spoor too well. He and another white man, the man from Mossamedes, Antonio Minho, have been here." Mr. Blakeney knew by experience the extraordinary powers of South African natives, and especially those of Bushman blood, in reading spoor. But he was staggered. "How can you know it is the spoor of Antonio Minho?" he asked. "Baas," replied Poeskop, "I have followed Minho many a time in the soft, sandy streets of Mossamedes. There is no mistaking his spoor. Once I have seen a man’s footprints, or an ox’s, or a horse’s, I can tell it anywhere. To you it may seem difficult; to a Bushman, no!" "Well," rejoined Mr. Blakeney, "anything else?" "Ja, baas," pursued the Bushman. "There are, as you see, two others. They are natives--Karl Engelbrecht’s servants."