“Moreover,” he went on, “I knew whence they would draw their next victim. I, too, have eyes and ears, Nkose, as well as yourself,” he said, with a whimsical laugh, “and I used them. The Abangan ’ema zolweni were strong in numbers, but otherwise weak. Their brethren were too young and—they talked—ah—ah—they talked. Hence I was able to follow Atyisayo to where I guided you. The rest was easy.”
“Well, Jan Boom,” I said seeing he had finished his story. “You will find you have done the very best day’s work for yourself as well as for others that you ever did in your life.”
“Nkose is my father,” he answered with a smile. “I am in his hands.”
Neither Kendrew nor I said much as we returned to the house. This hideous tale of a deep and secret superstition, with its murderous results, existent right in our midst, was too strange, too startling, and yet, every word of it bore infinite evidence of truth. Well, it proved what I have more than once stated, that no white man ever gets to the bottom of a native’s innermost ways, however much he may think he does.
Chapter Thirty Two.
The Last Penalty.
Inspector Manvers was a shrewd as well as a smart officer, and it was not long before he had obtained from the two frightened women who had been made prisoners, sufficient information to warrant him in making several additional arrests. These, which were effected cleverly and quietly, included no less a personage than Ivuzamanzi, the son of Tyingoza. This would have astonished me, I own, but for Jan Boom’s narrative; besides after the defection of Ivondwe I was prepared to be astonished at nothing.
An exhaustive search was made of the gruesome den of death, and in the result the identity of poor Hensley was established beyond a doubt, as his nephew had said. The police spared no pains. They dragged the bottom of the waterhole with grappling hooks, and brought up a quantity of human bones, and old tatters of rotted clothing. It was obvious that quite a number of persons had been done to death here.