The latter nodded curtly. "I suppose so. You must be formally identified."
Hammer asked no more questions. Ahead of him were the two small corrugated iron bungalows, with the flag fluttering gaily before them and the police huts at one side, while the natives stared in high glee at a white man being brought to justice.
The American grinned cheerfully as he caught sight of the planter who had assisted him on his first arrival at Melindi standing in the doorway of a store; but to his surprise his grin was not answered in kind. Instead, the planter darted him a black look, and Hammer could almost hear the curse that left his lips as he turned on his heel and vanished.
He had small time to wonder at this, however, for he was led into one of the iron bungalows which mark the limitations of British rule in all torrid lands, and found himself in the presence of the district commissioner. The latter was a red-faced young man who sat at a table writing, with a whisky bottle on the shelf behind him; two more of the police were sitting on a bench inside the door, and these rose in salute as the squad marched Hammer inside.
"This is our man, Mr. Smith!" exclaimed the police lieutenant, saluting.
Commissioner Smith looked at Hammer from a pair of narrow set eyes and pulled a paper in front of him with a weary air.
"You are Cyrus Hammer, first mate of the yacht Daphne?"
"You bet I am!" shot back Hammer, irritated by the man's air. "And I demand to know why I am under arrest?"
"For murder," came the laconic answer, accompanied by a stare of mild surprise. "Don't come that, my man! Can't get away with it, really, don't you know!"
"Confound it, who have I murdered, you blithering ass?"