"Won't you try and follow up the track of the story—find out how it originated? Are you content to take it for granted that it is all moonshine?"
"We are doing something about it—but it's very difficult." The stranger spoke guardedly. "The only way is to set a thief to catch a thief. Gold can be melted, ancient stones can be cut, a hundred dealers will be eager to run any risk to get them."
A flood of anger coloured Michael's face; it brought out beads of perspiration on his forehead. He could scarcely contain himself; his rage tore at his bowels. His long journey, all that he had gone through—was this the end of it? Could anything be more fiat, more stale, more unprofitable? What a sudden tumble from the blue to brown earth! Above all, how maddening to have to hold his tongue, because no man would believe the story he could tell them, to have meekly to submit to the conventional etiquette of the moment! He felt anything but conventional. His anger had driven all finer feelings from his mind. If he could only find the native who had desecrated the treasure-trove, he would hang and quarter him without mercy!
"I'm afraid I must be getting back to my work," the excavator said. "But you needn't hurry. Rest here for as long as you like, only don't think me inhospitable if I leave you. Time's too precious to waste one moment."
"Thanks very much," Michael said. "But I'm quite fit. You've been awfully kind. It's time I was on my way."
"Where are you going to?"
"Back to my camp."
"Back to your camp? where did you leave it?"
Michael told him.
"Then did you come on here on purpose to visit this dig? Had you heard of it before you saw the Omdeh in the underground village?"