"My brother," said he, "is dead."
"Dead!"
Both Harry and Braid uttered the word in a single breath.
"That," said the man, "was the rifle of the sheikh."
"How do you know?" asked Harry.
"For a very simple reason," said the other. "There were two reports, therefore the shot was fired in this direction. If a man fires away from you, you hear but one report, which is like the crack of a whip. But if he fires toward you, you hear two reports, each one of which resembles the 'pop' of a cork. The shot was fired this way. The trigger was pressed by the Black Dog, whose bullet seldom misses its mark. Therefore, in all probability, my brother is gone."
"And you speak of it so calmly!" uttered Braid.
Fernando smiled. "With us who live on the Coast," said he, "death is an easy matter. Sooner or later we all die; some by murder, some by malaria, some by Black Jack, which is the most deadly fever in the world. Our graves are in the bush. What does it matter whether or not a bullet finds its mark?"
The two boys were astonished. They could not understand this strange man's views of life and death.
"And you have sacrificed your brother's life," asked Harry, "merely to prove that the Black Dog of the Cameroons intended to murder Klein?"