“Of its truth I feel no doubt whatever,” replied Pereira, who was poring, with the deepest fascination, over the crabbed writing; “nor do I feel any doubt that this gruesome cavern still exists and is still tenanted by its terrific band of workers. But still, I do not see what this has to do with your plans for the future, Englefield.” “My dear Pereira,” I rejoined. “You have answered that question yourself. You say you are sure that the cavern still exists with all its infernal machinery in full swing. So am I. And do you suppose that I can ever rest until I have seen its marvels with my own eyes, or, at least, ascertained the existence of the golden pool that feeds the crucibles on its furnaces?” “If ever you do see it with your own eyes, it will be the last thing that you _will_ see,” said Pereira. His daughter shuddered. “Come, Mr. Englefield,” she said, “you have not told us everything yet. You have something more to say, I am sure, haven’t you? Some scheme that you have worked out in connection with this story. Isn’t it so?” “Yes, I have a scheme,” I replied rather shyly, “but it is such a wild and apparently impracticable one that I am ashamed to mention it to you.” “Oh, don’t be afraid,” said she, smiling. “We are prepared for anything now; I defy you to astonish us.” “Then I will tell you my plan, and you can scoff if you please. It arose from my meeting at Adena with a Fulah merchant from, I think, Sókoto. When I first saw this man I was at once struck by his extraordinarily European appearance. He was scarcely as dark as I am, his features were quite of the European type--perhaps a trifle Jewish--and, in fact, I could not help seeing that if he and I had exchanged clothing, neither of us would have appeared at all inappropriately apparelled. Reflecting upon this, it occurred to me that it might, perhaps, not be impossible for me to assume the dress and style of a Fulah, and so make my journey to Aboási without exciting remark or attracting much attention. It sounds a pretty mad scheme, doesn’t it?” “It certainly does seem a little--well, a little romantic, I think,” said Miss Pereira; “but then I have never seen a Fulah, and to me an African is a black man, so I am unable to imagine you effectively disguised as a native.” “Yet it is not so mad as it sounds,” put in Pereira meditatively, stroking his beard. “Englefield is perfectly correct so far in what he says. Dress him up in a _riga_ and _wondo_, shave his head, wrap his face in a _litham_, stain his finger nails red, and put a streak of antimony under his eyes, and he might walk through any native market without even the Fulahs themselves suspecting him. But, my dear boy,” he continued, turning to me, “there are other difficulties, as you must have seen. There is the language, for instance. You are not going to pose as a deaf mute, I suppose?” “I know a little Hausa,” I said modestly.