“You’ll find a devil of a lot of primitive opposition to your march. The Alebi people will fight you, and the Otaki folk will chop you, sure.” He stood thinking, and swishing his whisk from side to side. “Avoid trouble,” he said, “I do not want war in my territories--_and_ keep away from the Portuguese border.” Sutton smiled. “We shall give that precious border a wide berth--the Colonial Office has seen the route, and approves.” The Commissioner nodded again and eyed Sutton gravely. “Good luck,” he said. The next day the expedition marched with the dawn, and disappeared into the wood beyond the Isisi River. A week later the stout man sailed for England. Months passed and none returned, nor did any news come of the expedition either by messenger or by _Lokali_. A year went by, and another, and still no sign came. Beyond the seas, people stirred uneasily; cable-gram and letter and official dispatch came to the Commissioner, urging him to seek for the lost expedition of the white men who had gone to find the River of Stars. Sanders of Bofabi shook his head. What search could be made? Elsewhere, a swift little steamer, following the courses of a dozen rivers, might penetrate--the fat water-jacket of a maxim gun persuasively displayed over the bow--into regions untouched by European influence, but the Alebi country was bush. Investigation meant an armed force; an armed force meant money--the Commissioner shook his head. Nevertheless he sent two spies secretly into the bush, cunning men, skilled in woodcraft. They were absent about three months, and returned one leading the other. “They caught him, the wild people of the Alebi,” said the leader without emotion, “and put out his eyes: that night, when they would have burnt him, I killed his guard and carried him to the bush.” Sanders stood before his bungalow, in the green moonlight, and looked from the speaker to the blind man, who stood uncomplainingly, patiently twiddling his fingers. “What news of the white men?” he asked at last, and the speaker, resting on his long spear, turned to the sightless one at his side. “What saw you, Messambi?” he asked in the vernacular. “Bones,” croaked the blind man, “bones I saw; bones and nearly bones. They crucified the white folk in a big square before the chief’s house, and there is no man left alive, so men say.” “So I thought,” said Sanders gravely, and made his report to England. Months passed and the rains came and the green season that follows the rains, and Sanders was busy, as a West Central African Commissioner can be busy, in a land where sleeping sickness and tribal feuds contribute steadily to the death-rate.