At four o'clock in the afternoon came the message Sanders expected: "London says permit for Corklan forged. Arrest. Take extremest steps. Deal drastically, ruthlessly. Holding in residence three companies African Rifles and mountain battery support you. Good luck. Administration." Sanders came out of the office, and Bones met him. "Men all aboard, sir," he reported. "We'll go," said Sanders. He met the girl half-way to the quay. "I know it is something very serious," she said quietly; "you have all my thoughts." She put both her hands in his, and he took them. Then, without a word, he left her. * * * * * Mr. P. T. Corklan sat before his new hut in the village of Fimini. In that hut--the greatest the N'gombi had ever seen--were stored hundreds of packages all well wrapped and sewn in native cloth. He was not smoking a cigar, because his stock of cigars was running short, but he was chewing a toothpick, for these, at a pinch, could be improvised. He called to his headman. "Wafa?" he asked. "Lord, he will come, for he is very cunning," said the headman. Mr. Corklan grunted. He walked to the edge of the village, where the ground sloped down to a strip of vivid green rushes. "Tell me, how long will this river be full?" he asked. "Lord, for a moon." Corklan nodded. Whilst the secret river ran, there was escape for him, for its meandering course would bring him and his rich cargo to Spanish territory and deep water. His headman waited as though he had something to say. "Lord," he said at last, "the chief of the N'coro village sends this night ten great teeth and a pot." Corklan nodded. "If we're here, we'll get 'em. I hope we shall be gone." And then the tragically unexpected happened. A man in white came through the trees towards him, and behind was another white man and a platoon of native soldiers. "Trouble," said Corklan to himself, and thought the moment was one which called for a cigar. "Good-morning, Mr. Sanders!" he said cheerfully. Sanders eyed him in silence. "This is an unexpected pleasure," said Corklan. "Corklan, where is your still?" asked Sanders. The plump man laughed. "You'll find it way back in the forest," he said, "and enough sweet potatoes to distil fifty gallons of spirit--all proof, sir, decimal 1986 specific gravity water extracted by Soemmering's method--in fact, as good as you could get it in England." Sanders nodded. "I remember now--you're the man that ran the still in the Ashanti country, and got away with the concession." "That's me," said the other complacently. "P. T. Corklan--I never assume an alias."