He was rather surprised at meeting the negro, but he apologized quite nicely for the Christmas Eve incident, and also for any inconvenience which the other might have undergone owing to the action of the police. I was wondering if Dad meant to put his hand in his pocket and produce some money, but he told me afterwards that he felt exactly the same as I did with regard to Prince John. The man looked every inch a king, and I have reckoned up that he was at least seventy-four inches high.
But, before I could stop him, Dad nearly gave me away badly.
“I ought to tell you,” he went on, “that, from circumstances which have come to my knowledge, I now sympathize deeply with you in your search for the—er—curious West African—er—god which you wish to recover, and I must say that if my—er—daughter Millicent had consulted me—”
So Dad was just beginning to tell the Kwantu chief in his best J.P. manner that Schwartz was again the proud possessor of the ju-ju, when I broke in:
“One moment, father dear,” I cried, “you will understand things ever so much better when you hear what Prince John and I have to say to each other. Have you kept your part of the bargain?” I asked the black man quickly.
He took from his coat pocket a small bundle tied with pink tape.
“Here are fifty Bank of England notes for £100 each,” he said.
“Then here is your ju-ju,” I answered, diving into my skirt pocket, and handing him the original piece of ivory, beaded kilt and all complete, and you may now know what a trouble it was to get a fair copy of it made for Schwartz during the few hours I had at my disposal in London.
Dad looked awfully severe, after his first gasp of amazement had passed.
“Millicent,“ he said, ”what have you done?”