Mokorongo's uneasiness returned; he shifted slightly and gazed at the ceiling.
"Tell me your story."
"Morena, my case is a big one; it is of killing—the killing of people, of my son—by witchcraft. Yesterday at sunset he died, and I, too, shall die to-night unless the Morena, father of his people, makes a stronger medicine, stronger than that of the witch doctor——" Here the wretched fellow paused.
The Commissioner looked thoughtfully at the man in front of him; it was evident that the native dared not mention the witch doctor's name. Presently he rose, took from a side-table a decanter, poured himself out some whisky, and added soda from a sparklet bottle. Returning to his seat, he drank deeply of the bubbling liquid.
The native was much impressed. Boiling water alone, so far as he knew, bubbled like that; he knew of the ordeal by boiling water, and had, no doubt, seen more than once the test applied. But this white man drank the boiling mixture with evident pleasure. Here, then, was the chief of all witch doctors.
He finished his sentence: "—Chiromo."
"Where does he live?"
He explained in detail.
"Of what do you accuse Chiromo?"
"Of killing my son by witchcraft."