"You had an example of the Bat's power not long since," Peters went on. "My exploring companions were poisoned, but not before the tropical diseases man had made some interesting discoveries. Although the swamp-belt is unhealthy, malarial fever is not so common as some people think. In fact, it does not account for all the fatal sickness." "Yet strangers die from fever and among the half-breeds the mortality is large." "That is so," Peters agreed. "All the same, my notion is, it's better to study Obeah than medicine, and, if you want to enjoy good health, cultivate the friendship of the Bat. He knows how to get rid of people he disapproves." "The brute ought to be shot! However, I don't see what this has got to do with our giving you a share in our business." "I think your partner sees," said Peters, meaningly, and Wyndham advanced a few steps with his fist clenched. His eyes shone and the veins on his forehead swelled; but when Marston thought he would seize the other he stopped a yard or two off. "How much do you know?" he asked in a hoarse voice. "Nearly all, I think," Peters replied, and turned to Marston. "The Bat is clever and knows how to use the natural products of the swamps. In fact, I imagine some of his discoveries would surprise our doctors. He cannot, however, make all he needs, and somebody has supplied him with arms and cartridges, besides chemicals and drugs in use in civilized countries. It's sometimes an advantage to cure your friends as well as destroy your antagonists, and the power of an up-to-date Obeah man is not altogether founded on magic." "Who has supplied him?" Marston asked, with strange and horrible misgivings. Peters smiled. "You were very dull for some time, but I think you begin to see. Well, I suppose you can comfort yourself with the reflection that when you shared the profit you didn't know how it was earned." Marston turned and struggled for control when he saw Wyndham's face. The sweat stood on the latter's forehead and he shrank from his comrade's glance. "Is this true, Harry?" Marston asked. "Have we been backing that devilish mulatto?" "You know now," said Wyndham, with forced quietness. "It looks as if you had got a nasty knock. I'd hoped you would not find out." Marston tried to pull himself together. He must be calm, but calm was hard. Peters gave him a mocking smile. "There's something yet. The Bat is not a mulatto." "Not a mulatto?" said Marston dully. "What is he then?" "A white man. If you're not satisfied, ask your partner. He knows him best." "Who is the Bat, Harry?" "Rupert Wyndham," Wyndham answered and turned his head. For a moment or two Marston said nothing, and then his lethargy vanished. Horror gave way to fury and he clenched his hand as he turned to Peters. "You have shot your bolt and missed," he said. "You're a cunning brute, but all the same a fool. Now get off, or I'll throw you over the wall."