"Or some leopard has gobbled up the postman," another suggested.
For a couple of days longer the deputy and military officers waited, hourly expecting some message from the Governor's party, but none came. There was no reason to think that harm had befallen them, for the colony was in perfect order.
Then they sent up for news to the next town of any importance, only to hear that nothing had been heard there either.
The answer astounded them.
An expedition was sent off post-haste to find out what had happened to the party.
They were nearly a fortnight in reaching the old fort, the last spot where any message had come from. And there they found the British flag still flying over the official headquarters, but both the bungalow and the fortress were deserted. In the old guardroom and the compound were a few gnawed human bones; but there was no other trace of the missing expedition, although there was every sign that disaster had overtaken it.
The officials were aghast. Sir George and his staff had completely disappeared. That there had been fighting was evident. The bones in the guardroom and compound told them that much, but all trace of their identity had been gnawed off by prowling hyenas.
The country around was scoured, but it brought no clue. The French Government was communicated with, but it could throw no light on the affair.
When the news reached England it caused a sensation, for Society culled that Sir George Barclay's daughter, the lovely twenty-year-old heiress, Pansy Langham, was among those missing—dead now, or perhaps worse; the chattel of one of the wild marauders who had fallen so swiftly and silently upon her father's party.
And in a pleasant English country house Miss Grainger wept for the bright, brave girl who had always been such a generous friend and considerate mistress.