"Well, what are we to do?" asked Mr. McFee.
"Thirty-five miles below is an English trading-station," Gifford said, eagerly. "We must get a boat of some kind."
Tho black had waded knee-deep into the stream. He bent over with his face close to the water, and then struck out silently.
"Come back here, you black rascal," hissed Gifford, raising his rifle.
But the boy's reply caused him to lower it.
"He says there's a boat tied to the branches of yonder tree," he murmured.
Now by bending over all could see it plainly. The negro slid over the side, and soon came back paddling it silently along the shore; the others crawled in, and now, keeping well in the deep shadow of the trees, they drifted down the stream; the cries and lights of the Bangwali village grew fainter and fainter in the distance. When around the bend of the river Gifford picked up a paddle, and they struck out at full speed. Three hours' paddling and they were beyond King Obani's jurisdiction, and by daylight they saw the clearing of the English trader.
For some reason they chose not to tell their story, and the next morning as they sat at breakfast a canoe shot down the stream. Some natives landed.
"Hullo, here's news," said the trader's clerk as he approached the house after meeting the native boat. "King Obani is dead."
"Then the mystery of his treasure dies with him," said the trader, for the story was well known.