Maxwell shook his head.
"Your first suggestion shows some discernment, Hilton; the second, less. Even a wildcat company promoter would fight shy of this mine; and it is tolerably certain that we have both the cross-marked man and Monsieur Victor Rideau still to reckon with."
Dane stretched himself out on some matting when Maxwell turned out the lamp, but he did not immediately sleep. The hot African darkness hemmed in the little tent, but he could see his comrade's figure dimly outlined against it as he sat rigidly still in the entrance. Then it struck him that they were very far away from all help from civilization, with a secret in their possession which already had cost the lives of other men. The roseate visions faded, and a sense of impending trouble preceded slumber. It was significant that Dane's fingers sought the pistol that lay beside him.
"Not asleep yet?" asked Maxwell. "What is troubling you?"
"I don't quite know," Dane answered. "I was going to ask you the same thing. Carsluith, if Rideau or the other rascal interferes with us further before I have won sufficient to float my patent, some of the party won't go home again."
The sun had just cleared the forest when, one morning soon after Dane had set his flume and washing gear to work, he sat at breakfast before a swinging table in their extemporized mess tent. Maxwell, who had just risen, stood in the entrance, partly dazzled by the growing brightness. Suddenly some of the Krooboys commenced to chatter excitedly, and a negro's voice rose above the commotion:
"White man lib for across the river!"
Maxwell, springing into the tent, snatched up a pair of binoculars; and the table overturned with a crash as Dane scrambled to his feet.
"The devil!" he exclaimed, staring stupidly at the figure below which saluted them with uplifted arm.
Maxwell frowned as he sharply closed the glasses.