“It comes from Borneo,” said the baronet shortly.
“The home of the head-hunters.”
Sir Gregory looked round, his brows lowered.
“No,” he said, “it comes from Dutch Borneo.”
Evidently there was something about this weapon which aroused unpleasant memories. He glowered for a long time in silence into the little fire that was burning on the hearth.
“I killed the man who owned that,” he said at last, and it struck Michael that he was speaking more to himself than to his visitor. “At least, I hope I killed him. I hope so!”
He glanced round, and Michael Brixan could have sworn there was apprehension in his eyes.
“Sit down, What’s-your-name,” he commanded, pointing to a low settee. “We’ll have a drink.”
He pushed a bell, and, to Michael’s astonishment, the summons was answered by an under-sized native, a little copper-coloured man, naked to the waist. Gregory gave an order in a language which was unintelligible to Michael—he guessed, by its sibilants, it was Malayan—and the servant, with a quick salaam, disappeared, and came back almost instantly with a tray containing a large decanter and two thin glasses.
“I have no white servants—can’t stand ’em,” said Penne, taking the contents of his glass at a gulp. “I like servants who don’t steal and don’t gossip. You can lick ’em if they misbehave, and there’s no trouble. I got this fellow last year in Sumatra, and he’s the best butler I’ve had.”