They turned with one accord to the forest path.
Two native policemen were coming towards them, and between them a bedraggled M'lama, her skirt all awry, her fine hat at a rakish angle, stepped defiantly.
"Heavens!" said Bones, "she's got away again.... That's my prisoner, dear old officer!"
Hamilton frowned.
"I hope she hasn't frightened Pat ... she was walking in the reservation."
Bones did not faint, his knees went from under him, but he recovered by clutching the arm of his faithful Ali.
"Dear old friend," he murmured brokenly, "accidents ... error of judgment ... the greatest tragedy of my life...."
"What's the matter with you?" demanded Sanders in alarm, for the face of Bones was ghastly.
Lieutenant Tibbetts made no reply, but walked with unsteady steps to the lock-up, fumbled with the key and opened the door.
There stepped forth a dishevelled and wrathful girl (she was a little scared, too, I suspect), the most radiant and lovely figure that had ever dawned upon the horizon of Bones.