The weather became more threatening with the approach of evening. At night, Beela left us concealed near the prison hut, and went to bring our supper.
After she had returned and we had eaten, she suggested that Christopher and I go and see the prisoner, and learn all that we could. Gato would not be on duty, and the light was dim. Thence we should go to the postern in the palace wall, and there be met by her. Then she left.
When we were near the hut a shadow leaped out of the ground, and challenged. I answered as Beela had instructed, and the guard stepped aside. We entered, and the two natives sitting with the prisoner gave us only a glance. In an authoritative manner I bade them wait outside, and they obediently went.
Mr. Vancouver was sitting on a stool, his head bowed in dejection, but he quickly straightened, and drilled us with a keenly questioning look, in which fear, anxiety, and hope were present. It was evident that he was profoundly suspicious. He was too shrewd not to see the significance of his being kept under guard in a hovel instead of being the king’s guest.
I asked him in Senatra English if he was comfortable. Over his haggard face flashed an eager interest.
“That is nothing,” he impatiently answered. “I want to know why I am kept here.”
“Do you really expect to see the king?” I asked.
He started. “What do you mean?” he demanded.
“What do you think you are here for?”
“The king sent for me—for a conference.” A red light came into his eyes.