He had been called into the bush to settle a witch-doctor palaver. He travelled sixty miles along the tangled road that leads to the Alebi country, and established his seat of justice at a small town called M’Saga. He had twenty Houssas with him, else he might not have gone so far with impunity. He sat in the thatched palaver house and listened to incredible stories of witchcraft, of spells cast, of wasting sickness that fell in consequence, of horrible rites between moonset and sunrise, and gave judgment. The witch-doctor was an old man, but Sanders had no respect for grey hairs. “It is evident to me that you are an evil man,” he said, “and----” “Master!” It was the complainant who interrupted him, a man wasted by disease and terror, who came into the circle of soldiery and stolid townspeople. “Master, he is a bad man----” “Be silent,” commanded Sanders. “He practises devil spells with white men’s blood,” screamed the man, as two soldiers seized him at a gesture from the Commissioner. “He keeps a white man chained in the forest----” “Eh?” Sanders was alert and interested. He knew natives better than any other man; he could detect a lie--more difficult an accomplishment, he could detect the truth. Now he beckoned the victim of the witch-doctor’s enmity towards him. “What is this talk of white men?” he asked. The old doctor said something in a low tone, fiercely, and the informer hesitated. “Go on,” said Sanders. “He says----” “Go on!” The man was shaking from head to foot. “There is a white man in the forest--he came from the River of Stars--the Old One found him and put him in a hut, needing his blood for charms....” The man led the way along a forest path, behind him came Sanders, and, surrounded by six soldiers, the old witch-doctor with his hands strapped together. Two miles from the village was a hut. The elephant grass grew so high about it that it was scarcely visible. Its roof was rotten and sagging, the interior was vile.... Sanders found a man lying on the floor, chained by the leg to a heavy log; a man who laughed softly to himself, and spoke like a gentleman. The soldiers carried him into the open, and laid him carefully on the ground. His clothes were in tatters, his hair and his beard were long, there were many little scars on either forearm where the witch-doctor’s knife had drawn blood. “M--m,” said Sanders, and shook his head. “... The River of Stars,” said the wreck, with a chuckle, “pretty name--what? Kimberley? Why, Kimberley is nothing compared to it.... I did not believe it until I saw it with my eyes ... the bed of the river is packed with diamonds, and you’d never find it, Lambaire, even with the chart, and your infernal compass.... I’ve left a cache of tools, and food for a couple of years....” He thrust his hand into his rag of a shirt and brought out a scrap of paper. Sanders bent down to take it, but the man pushed him back with his thin hand.