"We'll deal fairly. The odds aren't quite so big as you think—we'll have Koyala and the hill Dyaks with us."
"H'mm. Jahi comes to-morrow afternoon, you say?"
"Yes. I shall appoint him Rajah over all the hill people."
Carver picked up his cigar and puffed in silence for several moments.
"If you could only trust the brutes," he exploded suddenly. "Damn it, Mr. Gross, I wish I had your confidence, but I haven't. I can't help remember some of the things that happened back in Luzon a few years ago—and the Tagalogs aren't far distant relatives of these cusses. 'Civilize 'em with a Krag,' the infantry used to sing. It's damn' near the truth."
"In the heart of every man there's something that responds to simple justice and fair dealing—What's that?"
A soft thud on the wall behind them provoked the exclamation. Carver sprang to his feet, tore the cigar from Peter Gross's mouth, and hurled it at the fireplace with his own. Almost simultaneously he snapped the heavy blinds together. The next moment a soft tap sounded on the shutters.
Peter Gross lit a match and stepped to the wall. A tiny arrow, tipped with a jade point, and tufted with feathers, quivered in the plaster. Carver pulled it out and looked at the discolored point critically.
"Poisoned!" he exclaimed. He gave it to the resident, remarking ironically: