"My good news being told, I have a slice of bad for you. But first let me make an admission. Since Nixey's pony pulled Nixey's spider out of Gueldersdorp with Lady Hannah and her maid in it, I have had three communications from your wife."
"You're pullin' my leg, sir, ain't you?" queries Bingo doubtfully.
"Not a bit of it."
In confirmation of the statement he takes out a shabby pocket-book, fat with official documents, and, unstrapping it, selects three, and hands them to Bingo. They are flimsy sheets of tissue-paper covered with spidery characters in violet ink, and Bingo, taking them, recognises the handwriting, and is, as he states without hesitation, confoundedly flabbergasted.
"For they are in my wife's wild scrawl," he splutters at last. "How on earth did they reach you, sir?"
"The first was brought in by a native boy who said he belonged to the kraals at Tweipans," says the Chief. "Boiled small and stuffed into a quill stuck through his ear in the usual way. He trumped up a glib story about his cow having been killed and his new wife beaten by Brounckers' men, and his desire to be revenged, and oblige the English lady who'd been kind to him——"
"Umph! Native gratitude don't run to being skinned alive with sjamboks—not much!" the other comments. "Chap must have been lyin', or a kind of nigger Phœnix."
"Exactly. So I couldn't find it in my heart to part with him. He's on the coloured side of the gaol now, with two others, who subsequently landed in with the documents you have in hand there."
"Am I to read 'em?" Bingo queries.
His commanding officer nods, with the muscle in his lean cheek twitching.