“I would like to hold out some hope,” he said gently, “but that would be cruel; the story has the ring of truth, and yet there is something in it which leads me to the belief that there is something behind it which we do not know.” He did not tell her of his suspicions. These he had confided to Sanders, and the little man had sent a party back to make an examination of the place where Sutton was buried. “White men die very suddenly in the Alebi,” said Sanders. “There is every chance that the story is true--yet they are not the kind of men who from any sentimental consideration would take upon themselves the work of burying a poor chap. That’s the part I can’t believe.” “What will you do when the search party returns?” asked Amber. “I have thought it out,” replied Sanders. “I shall ask them for no report except in the presence of yourself and the men; this inquiry is to be an impartial one, it is already a little irregular.” Weeks passed--weeks of intolerable suspense for Whitey and Lambaire, playing bumble puppy whist in the shade of their hut. Sanders paid them duty calls. He gave them the courteous attention which a prison governor would give to distinguished prisoners--that was how it struck Lambaire. Then, one morning, an orderly came with a note for them--Their presence was required at “The Residency.” No two men summoned from the cells below the dock ever walked to judgment with such apprehension as did these. They found the Commissioner sitting at a big table, which was the one notable article of furniture in his office. Three travel-stained natives in the worn blue uniform of police stood by the desk. Sanders was speaking rapidly in a native dialect which was incomprehensible to any other of the white people in the room. Amber, with Cynthia Sutton, sat on chairs to the right of the Commissioner’s desk, and two vacant chairs had been placed on the left of the desk. It was curiously suggestive of a magistrate’s court, where the positions of plaintiff and defendant are well defined. Lambaire shot a sidelong glance at the girl in her cool white frock and her snowy helmet, and made a little nervous grimace. They took their seats, Lambaire walking heavily to his. Sanders finished talking, and with a jerk of his hand motioned his men to the centre of the room. “I was getting their story in consecutive order,” he said. “I will ask them questions and will translate their answers, if it is agreeable to you?” Whitey coughed to clear his throat, tried to frame an agreement, failed, and expressed his approval with a nod. “Did you find the place of the four trees?” asked Sanders of the native. “Lord, we found the place,” said the man. Sentence by sentence as he spoke, Sanders translated the narrative.