"Yes, sar. Licensed to carry one gun, sar."
"Humph!" By the time the officer had glanced over the permit and returned it with a bad grace, Hammer had recovered his power of speech. He knew that something was radically wrong, but that if he resisted it would be more wrong still, so he restrained his anger and spoke with what seemed to him remarkable coolness.
"I'd like to know what this means, lieutenant! How dare you arrest me, and on what charge? What——"
"Whatever you say will be used against you," replied the officer. "You are under arrest for murder, sir, and I warn you not to resist. I just got here in time evidently; you slipped out of Mombasa pretty neatly, 'pon my word!"
"Slipped your grandmother!" retorted Hammer with some heat. "I'm not in the habit of slipping out of anywhere, you impertinent young puppy! I want to know——"
"See here, Hammer," and the officer, for all his youth, showed determination, "I'd advise you to keep your mouth closed unless you want it closed for you. If you can't help talking, wait till you get closeted with the district commissioner. I'll warrant you'll get a mouthful from him, my man, and no mistake, but in the meantime I'll thank you not to discuss this affair with me. I've no bally use for a man of your stamp, and the less you say the better for you. All ready, sergeant?"
The sergeant was, and so was Hammer. Furious but helpless, he clearly perceived that there was no use resisting, and that argument with this business-like young officer was worse than futile.
He was but obeying orders, after all, and the only thing to do was to have it out with the district commissioner.
So, angry at the mere senselessness of the arrest, the American fell in between the two men and followed the sergeant, his face pale and hard.
As he went he saw that Omar ibn Kasim, after a quick order in Arabic which he did not catch, was starting after him. Struck by a sudden thought, Hammer held up the hand on which glittered Solomon's ring.