"Lord, that is true," she said. "He died of a sudden sickness."
"Too sudden for my liking," said Sanders, and disappeared into the dark interior of the hut. By and by Sanders came back into the light and looked down on her. In his hand was a tiny glass phial, such as Europeans know very well, but which was a remarkable find in a heathen village.
"I have a fetish," he said, "and my fetish has told me that you poisoned your husband, M'Fasa."
"Your fetish lies," she said, not looking up.
"I will not argue that matter," said Sanders wisely, for he had no proofs beyond his suspicions; and straightway he summoned to him the chief man of the village.
There was a little wait, the woman pounding her corn slowly, with downcast eyes, pausing now and then to wipe the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, and Sanders, his helmet on the back of his head, a half-smoked cheroot in his mouth, hands thrust deep into his duck-pockets and an annoyed frown on his face, looking at her.
By and by came the chief tardily, having been delayed by the search for a soldier's scarlet coat, such as he wore on great occasions.
"Master, you sent for me," he said.
Sanders shifted his gaze.
"On second thoughts," he said, "I do not need you."