“I saw all that,” replied Tarzan; “but the pebbles in the pouch were not the pebbles of Tarzan—they were only such pebbles as fill the bottoms of the rivers, and the shelving banks beside them. Even the Arab would not have them, for he threw them away in anger when he had looked upon them. It is my pretty pebbles that I want—where are they?”
“I do not know, I do not know,” cried Werper. “I gave them to Achmet Zek or he would have killed me. A few minutes later he followed me along the trail to slay me, although he had promised to molest me no further, and I shot and killed him; but the pouch was not upon his person and though I searched about the jungle for some time I could not find it.”
“I found it, I tell you,” growled Tarzan, “and I also found the pebbles which Achmet Zek had thrown away in disgust. They were not Tarzan’s pebbles. You have hidden them! Tell me where they are or I will kill you,” and the brown fingers of the ape-man closed a little tighter upon the throat of his victim.
Werper struggled to free himself. “My God, Lord Greystoke,” he managed to scream, “would you commit murder for a handful of stones?”
The fingers at his throat relaxed, a puzzled, far-away expression softened the gray eyes.
“Lord Greystoke!” repeated the ape-man. “Lord Greystoke! Who is Lord Greystoke? Where have I heard that name before?”
“Why man, you are Lord Greystoke,” cried the Belgian. “You were injured by a falling rock when the earthquake shattered the passage to the underground chamber to which you and your black Waziri had come to fetch golden ingots back to your bungalow. The blow shattered your memory. You are John Clayton, Lord Greystoke—don’t you remember?”
“John Clayton, Lord Greystoke!” repeated Tarzan. Then for a moment he was silent. Presently his hand went falteringly to his forehead, an expression of wonderment filled his eyes—of wonderment and sudden understanding. The forgotten name had reawakened the returning memory that had been struggling to reassert itself. The ape-man relinquished his grasp upon the throat of the Belgian, and leaped to his feet.
“God!” he cried, and then, “Jane!” Suddenly he turned toward Werper. “My wife?” he asked. “What has become of her? The farm is in ruins. You know. You have had something to do with all this. You followed me to Opar, you stole the jewels which I thought but pretty pebbles. You are a crook! Do not try to tell me that you are not.”
“He is worse than a crook,” said a quiet voice close behind them.