Regretfully he decided to give up the search; two of his carriers had gone down with beri-beri, and the rainy season was getting nearer and nearer. Worse than this the Isisi--Alebi folk--were restless. He had had advice of crucifixions and dances, and Sanders had sent him six more soldiers to strengthen his escort. The occasional storms had been followed by irregular downpours, and he himself had had an attack of fever. “I will stay two more days,” he told Abiboo; “if by then I find nothing, we strike camp.” That night, as he sat in his tent writing a letter to Cynthia, there came a summons from Abiboo. “Master,” said the Houssa, “one of my men has heard a shot.” Amber slipped on his jacket and stepped out of the tent. “Where--in what direction?” he asked. It was pitch-dark, and a gentle drizzle of rain was falling. “Towards the east,” said the native. Amber returned to the tent for his electric lamp and together they stood listening. Far away they heard a noise like that made by a cat in pain; the long howls came faintly in their direction. “That is a wounded leopard,” said Abiboo. Amber was thinking rapidly. Save for the gentle murmur of rain, there was no sound in the forest. It was certainly not the night for a leopard to advertise his presence. “If there is a white man in the forest,” said Amber, “he would come for this.” He slipped his revolver from his pocket and fired two shots in the air. He waited, but there came no answer. At intervals of half a minute he emptied the chambers of the weapon without eliciting any reply. For the greater part of an hour Amber remained listening. The cries of the leopard--if leopard it was--had died down to a whimper and had ceased. There was nothing to be gained by a search that night; but as soon as daylight came, Amber moved out with two Houssa guards and Abiboo. It was no light task the party had set itself, to beat six square miles of forest, where sapling and tree were laced together with rope upon rope of vegetation. It was well into the afternoon when Abiboo found the spoor of a wild beast. Following it they came to flecks of dried blood. It might have been--as Amber realized--the blood of an animal wounded by another. Half an hour’s trailing brought them to a little clearing, where stretched at the foot of a tree lay the leopard, dead and stiff. “H’m,” said Amber, and walked up to it. There was no sign of the laceration which marks the beast wounded in fight. “Turn it over.” The men obeyed, and Amber whistled. There was an indisputable bullet wound behind the left shoulder. Amber knelt down, and with his hunting knife cut down in search of the bullet. He found it after a long search and brought it to light. It was a flattened Webley revolver bullet. He went back to camp in a thoughtful mood that night.