To walk into a room in West Central Africa with your mind engaged on such matters as occupied the minds of Lambaire and Whitey, and to come suddenly upon a man whom you thought was picking oakum in a county gaol, is somewhat disconcerting. Such was the experience of the two explorers. There was a dramatic pause as Amber rose from the Commissioner’s lounge chair. They looked at him, and he looked at them in silence. The mocking smile which they had come to know so well was missing from his face. He was wholly serious. “Hullo,” growled Lambaire. “What is the meaning of this?” It was not a striking question. For the moment Amber did not speak. The three were alone in the Commissioner’s bungalow. He motioned them to seats, and they sat immediately, hypnotized by the unexpectedness of the experience. “What have you done with Sutton?” asked Amber quietly. They did not answer him, and he repeated the question. “He’s dead,” said Whitey. His voice was unnecessarily loud. “He’s dead--died of fever on the march. It was very sad; he died ... of fever.” For the first time in his life Whitey was horribly frightened. There was a curious note of command in Amber’s tone which was difficult to define. It seemed as though this convict had suddenly assumed the function of judge. Neither Whitey nor Lambaire could for the moment realize that the man who demanded information was one whom they had seen handcuffed to a chain of convicts on Paddington station. “When did he die?” They told him, speaking in chorus, eagerly. “Who buried him?” Again the chorus. “Yet you had two natives with you--and told them nothing. You did not even ask them to dig a grave.” His voice was grim, the eyes that watched them were narrowed until they seemed almost shut. “We buried him,” Lambaire found his voice, “because he was white and we were white--see?” “I see.” He walked to the table and took from it a sheet of paper. They saw it was the rough plan of a country, and guessed that it represented the scene of their wanderings. “Point out the place where he was buried.” And Amber laid the map upon the knees of Whitey. “Show nothing!” Lambaire recovered a little of his self-possession. “What do you insinuate. Amber? Who the devil are you that you should go round askin’ this or that?--an old lag too!” As his courage revived he began to swear--perhaps the courage waited upon the expletives. “... After goin’ through all this!” he spluttered, “an’ hunger an’ thirst an’ fightin’--to be questioned by a crook.” He felt the fierce grip of Whitey’s hand on his wrist and stopped himself. “Say nothin’--more than you can help,” muttered Whitey. Lambaire swallowed his wrath and obeyed. “What is this talk about a diamond field?” Amber went on in the same passionless, level voice. “The Government know of no such field--or such river. You have told the Commissioner that you have found such a place. Where is it?”