“You mean?”
“I mean that I don’t know whether he suspects or not. I should imagine that he’s watching out, and so am I, which makes it quite interesting. Now I’ll go and see if I can straighten Mast’s backbone a bit.”
The King certainly had not accepted Pryce’s statement that he was a quiet man and wished to run away from fear of a native uprising; but Pryce might have had other reasons of which he did not wish to speak, and the real reason did not occur to the King at all. But he was suspicious and on his guard. He had very much to think of and many questions to ask himself. What line would Sir John take when he found that he and the other partners were to be bought out? Would Lechworthy be obstinate on the question of white missionaries for Faloo? If this were arranged, would Lechworthy be able to bring the scheme to a successful issue? Who was it that had murdered Duncombe?
To this last question the King had a simple means of finding the answer. Knowing the native mind as he did, he knew that the murderer would be driven to make some demonstration of triumph and satisfied revenge. He would do it secretly, probably very late at night, but he would find himself driven to do it. Stealthily and on foot the King went from one native house to another, wherever he suspected the criminal might possibly be.
It was some hours later that he stood outside a little shanty and listened to the man who was singing within. The singer was drunk—drunk on methylated spirits stolen from the stores of the Exiles’ Club. The King entered.
It was just at this time that away at the palace Hilda Auriol managed to raise herself a little in bed. “Tiva! Ioia!” she called and fell back again. In an instant the two girls entered through the windows from the verandah.
“I—I think I am very ill,” moaned Hilda.
CHAPTER VII
Bassett was buried by lantern-light a little after one in the morning in a far corner of the club grounds. His was the fourth grave there, and not one of the four men had died in his bed. The Rev. Cyril Mast read the service sonorously, with dignity and self-control, for Soames Pryce had seen to him, and Soames Pryce was a clever doctor. The roughly-made coffin—a wooden framework with thick mats stretched over it—was borne by members of the club, and it was they who had dug the grave and afterwards filled it in. No native had ever been allowed to have anything to do with the interment of a white man.