John Solomon—Supercargo

By ALLAN HAWKWOOD
(Henry Bedford-Jones)

Author of
"Solomon's Quest" "The Seal of Solomon," etc.

London: HURST & BLACKETT, LTD.,
PATERNOSTER HOUSE, E.C.
1925

Contents

CHAPTER

I. [The Cattle-Wharf at Deptford]
II. [John Solomon]
III. [The Road to Melindi]
IV. [Who Murdered Hans Schlak?]
V. [The Adventure Begins]
VI. [The Lady Professor]
VII. [Hammer Starts Something]
VIII. [In the Open]
IX. [Hammer Begins to See]
X. [At Melindi]
XI. [Solomon Prepares for Action]
XII. [Under Suspicion]
XIII. [Accused and Accuser]
XIV. [Off At Last]
XV. [Dr. Krausz Proves Obstinate]
XVI. [The Place of Skulls]
XVII. [The Pit of Adders]
XVIII. ["Thahabu!"]
XIX. [The "Daphne" Again]

John Solomon—Supercargo

CHAPTER I
THE CATTLE-WHARF AT DEPTFORD

Frederick L. C. Harcourt, Viscount Ratcliff, was extremely natty in his flannels, buckskins, and yachting cap, and consequently he aroused tremendous excitement, plainly being nothing more or less than a "toff" of the first water.

As he strode along the cattle-wharf at Deptford, he looked as much out of place as would a royal highness if suddenly dropped among the habitués of Sally Tucker's pub.

Nevertheless, because of the Royal Yacht Club insignia on his cap, and also because his face was very brown and square-chinned and his shoulders rather broader than most, his "sunfish" prodding the long-horns down the gangs kept their comments strictly to themselves.

Harcourt, who was strolling along in a rather aimless fashion, nodded quietly to the astonished S.P.C.A. inspector, replied to the latter's flurried greeting that it certainly was a fine day, and passed on. His dark-blue eyes settled on an ancient and dishonorable well-deck cargo tank of some three thousand tons, from which the last batch of cattle were being driven into the wharf pens.

As he passed down beneath her counter, on the edge of the wharf, his sauntering ceased rather abruptly. From somewhere came a well-directed stream of blue, evil-smelling, pipe smoke, which shot down with the wind squarely athwart his face.

Harcourt looked up to see a man, obviously a "sunfish" or cattle-boat hand, leaning lazily upon the rail above him and grinning amiably at the intruder.

Foul beyond the ordinary foulness of the bullock waiter was the man, his clothes a mere mass of tattered rags, and dirt; but there was a twinkle in his grey eyes, and his face and neck were brown and rough and muscled. His tousle of black hair was crowned by a battered felt hat, whose brim flapped at weird angles about his ears; but from brow to chin his face was aquiline, sharp, while, as he addressed the other, white teeth flashed on his pipe-stem.

"Slumming, pardner?"

Harcourt smiled, his cheeks rosy through their bronze, and something of the cool insolence that had rested in the grey eyes above him died away before his look.

"Perhaps. Come down here, my man. I'd like a word with you, don't you know."

The sunfish did not move, but sent a slow stream of smoke down the wind, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"I'm not your man," came the calm retort. "Also, I'm quite satisfied where I am. If you want a word with me you are at liberty to trot up here; but I'd advise you to take that white coat off first. I'm liable to muss it up if you get me too excited."

The Englishman stared for a moment, evidently surprised at the voice and accent of the sunfish, which held quite as much authority as did his own and which betrayed culture despite the challenging veneer of insolence.

Meanwhile, the scattered sunfish and cowpunchers took note of their visitor's stoppage and, as the last of the cattle were shoved into their pen, a little crowd collected about the gang, scenting trouble with unmingled joy. Seeing that one of their comrades had taken the burden upon his own shoulders, they encouraged him distantly.

"Don't youse take any lip off'n him, pal!"

"Tell the bleedin', bloody toff 'is pants is tore, 'Ammer!"

"Ain't his little feet pretty——"

The murmuring died away with startling abruptness, for one of the cow-punchers shouted over from the pen, with callous indifference to the feelings of the visitor;

"Shut up, you stiffs! That's his lordship what laid out the Brighton Blighter last night. I seen him do it!"

Amid the ensuing silence Harcourt flushed darkly and walked to the gangway, the men drawing back suddenly from his mild look.

Up above watched the sunfish, his grey eyes wide, for all the docks had heard the story—how the famous Brighton Blighter had encountered some toff or other in Oxford Street the previous night, and how, after some passing reference to lords and ladies, the heavy-weight champion had been knocked out cold within a minute.

So this mild-eyed, wide-shouldered yachtsman was the man, then! The sunfish quietly laid aside his pipe and stood waiting; if his invitation had been accepted in the spirit in which it had been issued, he was like to have his work cut out for him. Harcourt, however, displayed no bellicose intention, but halted a few feet away.

"Well, now that I am here, I presume you'll grant me a few moments?"

The sunfish grinned as the blue eyes twinkled into his.

"I can spare you five minutes, my lord. I thought that perhaps you desired a sparring partner!"

"Oh, I say now!" Harcourt flushed again and was plainly ill at ease. "Just forget all that bally rot, can't you? It's too beastly——"

"Listen!"

The sunfish held up a hand, and from the wharf below a confused murmur drifted up from the gathering crowd.

"That's 'im, a talkin' to 'Ammer!"

"Aw, what youse givin' us? He didn't knock out your blamed white hope!"

"Stow that, ye flatfoot! Billy here seen it, an' that's the guy, all right!"

The sunfish grinned again at the uneasy yachtsman. "Don't be bashful, your lordship—true greatness cannot be hidden under flannels, even at Deptford, you see. Sorry to receive you in these duds, but my valet hasn't come down to the dock as yet."

A flicker of something that was not amusement flared out in the blue eyes, but it passed quickly with a chuckle.

"All right, my friend—you're the man I'm looking for! But, upon my word, I hardly expected such good luck."

"It's all yours so far," came the dry retort. "Only, if you're looking for a thug, you'll find plenty down there in the crowd." His grey eyes rested shrewdly, but laughingly, on the other.

"No, thanks very much." An appraising glance and a nod accompanied the words. "You'll do. Your name is Hammer I take it. American?"

"Stars and stripes, you bet. As to Hammer, that's not my name, but it's handle enough for this craft. 'Ammer, 'ammer, 'ammer on the 'ard 'ighway, you know—only my cognomen is a title of distinction gained by the honest use of fists. Yours, if you have one, was probably gained through the chance of birth. I will say, though, that you're very decent-looking, for a Britisher."

"Oh, thanks very much!" The visitor seemed anything but angry, to the visible disappointment of the watching gangway; still, he very plainly was bewildered by the cultured tones of the sunfish. "Are you—er—looking for work?"

"Well, that depends on the work," returned Hammer easily, paying no heed to the outraged ship's officers, who were looking on aghast. "No yachting, thanks. Too hard to look pleasant all the time. Besides, I can't keep straight."

The other's eyes met his, unsurprised, questioning, and beneath that level gaze Hammer only kept up his truculent air with an effort. This Englishman was very likeable.

"How so, Mr. Hammer?"

"Oh, general cussedness and particular booze. Better browse along and hunt up another victim, your lordship! I like your looks, but I don't like my own—in comparison."

This rather impulsive admission had no effect on Harcourt beyond sending a stubborn glint into his blue eyes. Deliberately pausing to light a cigarette, he extended his case to the other; Hammer refused, replacing his pipe in his mouth, but this time he carefully sent the smoke downward.

"No, I'm rather keen on you, Hammer. I've been—er—browsing along, as you say, all of the morning without any success, and it's getting tiresome. As matter of fact, I came out to look for a man with a second officer's ticket, a man who could use his fists and who was willing to take a chance with me.

"Now, however, I've changed my mind. I'm not quite sure yet as to what offer I'll make you, but come up to my address in the city when you're through here—to-night, if you can. Here's my card and a tenner to act as retainer."

The astonished Hammer mechanically shoved the Bank of England note into some recess of his ragged shirt, then perused the card. He looked up with hesitation in his eyes.

"Mind, Harcourt, I've warned you that I'm no good——"

"Nonsense! If I was after a sober, respectable seaman, do you think I'd have come here looking for one? When can I expect to see you?"

"Oh, have it your own way, then!" Hammer shrugged his shoulders, resignedly. "I'll meet you say, at Prince's for dinner. Centre table, far end."

"Eh?" Harcourt's eyes opened. "You—er—but Prince's, don't you know——"

"——Doesn't go with these duds, you mean?" Hammer chuckled as he finished the other's hesitating sentence. "Never mind—you should worry, Harcourt! Much obliged for the tenner, just the same; all you have to do is to show up and see what you find. Seven-thirty suit you?"

"Very well, thanks," murmured Harcourt, and so the colloquy ended—in amused and rather interested toleration on the part of the sunfish, and in bewildered doubt on that of the Englishman.

At seven-thirty that evening Harcourt received another shock, and this time a greater one. For after he stepped into the big dining-room at Prince's and beckoned the stately head-waiter, that individual arrived with the calm information that Mr. Hammer was waiting.

"Er—you know Mr. Hammer, Bucks?"

"Quite well, sir," responded Bucks, and Harcourt followed in subdued amazement.

He was led to a table, from which a man in evening dress sprang to meet him, hand extended. For a moment the sorely-doubting Englishman did not recognize the sunfish, until he took in the hard grey eyes, the tanned features, the keen incisive lines of the face.

Then he recovered himself and went through the form of greeting stiffly; but Hammer had no intention of letting him off so easily.

"It was rather a low-down trick, wasn't it?" grinned the American cheerfully. "However, we'll have an explanation all around. Poor chap, your face was a picture this morning when I announced that we'd dine here!"

"I must apologize, of course, my dear chap," returned Harcourt ruefully; then, unable to resist the infectious humour of the other, he broke into a laugh and the incident was closed.

In truth, Cyrus Hammer was well calculated to draw a second glance, for not only did his evening clothes fit him impeccably, but he wore them with ease and grace which made him to the full as distingué as his aristocratic companion.

His mouth was hard, and there were lines in his face which has no place in the face of a man of twenty-eight who had lived his life well; but these were in great part redeemed by an abundance of unfailing good humour, which hid, mask-like, the hard-fisted quality of the man underneath.

Harcourt wasted no time, and no sooner was the dinner fairly begun than he plunged headlong into the subject under discussion.

"Hammer, I have a little surprise for you myself, perhaps. I told you this morning that I had changed my plans pending your acceptance of my offer to you, so there is no use in beating about the bush.

"Until a month ago I had considered myself fairly well fixed for life; then came that flurry in Wall Street which wrecked two of your big institutions.

"I woke up one morning to find myself almost a beggar, as all my funds were invested in American securities and they had slipped down and out with a crash. My word, it was a blow! I had a few hundreds left; no more."

Hammer displayed none of the surprise he felt at this astounding revelation, but merely nodded; and after a moment, the other continued:

"Practically all that I saved out of the crash was my yacht, the Daphne. All my family have been sailors, don't you know, and if I hadn't been, sent down from the 'Mill'—Woolwich—years ago, I'd have been in the navy to-day. In fact, one of my proudest possessions is a Board of Trade certificate as Master.

"Well, I'd about made up my mind to sell the craft and try my luck in your bally country, when along comes an offer to charter the yacht. That gave me the idea. I say, Hammer, why couldn't I take this party out to East Africa, where they wish to go, then—er—browse around the ocean, acting as my own captain? Couldn't a chap make a decent living at that, eh?"

"Ought to," chuckled Hammer, making no secret of his interest by this time. "If you're willing to take a bit of risk once in a while, I fancy you could pick up some easy coin, and have a good time as well. But why should this party want to charter a yacht to reach East Africa with?"

"Oh, it's that big Dresden archaeological chap, Dr. Sigurd Krausz—he's sending out an expedition to dig up some beastly thing or other, and wants the Daphne for his own use, the field force going separately. I've not the slightest idea what he's after, but he's willing to pay well, and seems to be doing the thing on his own hook instead of working for any museum.

"But let's get down to business, Hammer. I've been thinking this over, and since I am frankly down and out, as you Americans would say, I've no notion of depending on myself alone. I'm a pretty good character-reader, Hammer, and I liked you at first sight or I wouldn't make this offer. Other things being equal, how would you like to take a junior partnership in the Daphne?"

Hammer looked at him silently, wondering if the man meant what he said. But the other was plainly in earnest, and, moreover, Hammer thought that he had seldom met a man to whom he was so attracted. That the liking was mutual there seemed to be no doubt; but would it last?

"I don't know," he returned slowly. "I'm no sailor, for one thing—I'm a cattle-boat hand, and nothing else. I can't see where I'd be any good."

"No matter," declared Harcourt impatiently. "You could soon pick up navigation; for that matter, there are plenty of men in command of craft without proper license. However, I'm not figuring on you as a sailor. I can do that, but I don't know a bally thing about business. You could handle the business end of everything and gradually work into handling the ship; she'd be my property, of course, but we'd share even on what we made."

"Go slow now," and Hammer laughed quietly while the waiter hovered about them. Then, when they were once more alone, he went on: "Better let me spin you my yarn first, then see how far you'd be willing to trust me."

Hammer's real name was Cyrus Murray, and until three years before this time he had been engaged in a profitable brokerage business in New York City. Alone in the world, he had made his own way, and in the course of its making he had contracted a hasty and ill-advised marriage with a girl who was in no way fitted to be his wife.

It was a sordid little tragedy, by no means uncommon in American life of to-day; but, unfortunately for Murray, his wife had been the first to discover that it was a tragedy.

He glossed over this portion of the tale in its telling, merely stating that he had allowed her to obtain a divorce, and had turned over to her the greater part of his worldly goods; but he had been hard hit by the entire affair.

Impulsively, he had thrown his business overboard, and one night, in reckless desperation, he sought shelter from his thoughts by shipping aboard a cattle-boat. Curiously enough, before he reached Liverpool he had found that in spite of the terribly rough life, in spite of the almost daily battles for existence into which his very appearance and manner flung him, the hard physical labour and the tortured weariness of his body was a relief to his mind. Then the liquor.

So for three years he had been traversing the Atlantic, working hard, fighting hard, drinking hard; his ambition was destroying; he took savage zest in bullying the thugs and degenerates who were his companions in misfortune, and he had thought himself fairly content at the level to which he had sunk.

Upon each arrival in England he made a practise of going to London and living like a gentleman for a week or two—for he had still some money left—until the life became unbearable to him, and back he would go to his cattle-boats and human cattle.

"There's the whole thing," he concluded with a bitter smile. "A fool paying for his folly, that's all. Still want me?"

"Yes," came the quiet answer. "I think we're well mated, Hammer; but, to make sure, suppose we make this a trial cruise together. You'll never find any ambition aboard a bally cattle-boat, that's sure, and you might better go to hell decently, if you're bound to go.

"However, you're a real man, and I like you. My offer stands; only, don't you know, I want your word that you won't drink while you're with me. I mean—er—well, drinking in a beastly fashion——"

"I get you, old man," chuckled Hammer quickly. "Suppose we put it that I can drink as much as you do, but no more, eh? All right, then—but I've really no great inclination for drink in itself. You have my word of honour, such as it is—and here's a toast in coffee to the Daphne and the daffy Dutchman!"

"Done!" cried Harcourt in undisguised delight, but as he raised his cup Bucks approached with a whispered word and a card. Harcourt frowned, glancing at the latter.

"'John Solomon'—who the devil is John Solomon? Who is he, Bucks?"

"A rather queer person, sir," replied the head-waiter sagely. "I might let him wait in a private room, sir!"

"All right, do so. We'll be out in a moment—confounded nuisance! How did the fellow come to look me up here? By Jove, Hammer, the unmitigated insolence of some——"

"Cool off," laughed the American. "Here, have another cigarette before we go, and we can investigate your friend after we finish. Funny name, John Solomon!"

CHAPTER II
JOHN SOLOMON

Since Hammer had an inveterate dislike of fat men in general, and blue-eyed fat men in particular—born out of his experience with a fat and demented Swede cook on his first cattle-boat trip—it was not to be wondered at that he eyed John Solomon with no great favour in his heart. For John Solomon was fat and blue-eyed.

"Pudgy" would be a better word than the flat and misleading "fat". Pudgy embraces the face that a man is not merely fat, but that he is filled to a comfortable completeness, as it were; that he is not too fat to move about, but just enough so to be dignified on occasion; and that his expression is cheerful above all else.

Save for this last item, the description fitted John Solomon to a dot, for while his face was cheerful enough, it was as totally devoid of expression as a face can be—and still remain a face.

He was a short, little man, not more than five feet six, very decently dressed in blue serge, and he sat quite contentedly filling a short clay pipe from a whittled plug as Hammer and Harcourt entered the private room.

When he glanced up and rose to meet them, the first thing Hammer noticed was that healthy-looking yet expressionless face, from which gazed out two eyes of pale blue and of great size.

As he came to learn later, Nature had endowed John Solomon with absolutely stolid features, but in compensation had given him eyes which could be rendered unusually intelligent at times.

"You are John Solomon?" questioned Harcourt curtly. "What is your business with me, and how did you know I was here?"

"Beggin' your pardon, sir," and the pale-blue eyes met the darker ones of Harcourt without shrinking. "I 'ave a pal down at Deptford who 'appens to 'ear what you and Mr. 'Ammer said this morning. 'E knowed I was werry anxious for a ship, and 'e comes to me with it."

"Oh, you want a ship, then?" returned Harcourt. "And therefore you interrupt a gentleman at dinner in a fashionable restaurant——"

"I didn't mean no 'arm, sir," broke in Solomon, without cringing, however. "You see, sir, I 'adn't no means o' knowing where to find you otherwise. I say that if so be as a man wants work, it don't matter 'ow 'e gets it, so 'e gets it, and I trust as 'ow you'd look at it the same way, Mr. Harcourt, sir."

"And quite right you are, John Solomon," exclaimed Hammer, amused despite himself, and beginning to think that this pudgy little man had some brains. Since Harcourt was not quite sure whether to be angry or not, the American's laugh saved the situation for the moment. "You're got plenty of nerve, my friend, but you must want work pretty badly to go after it so strong. What's your line—seaman?"

"No, sir," and the wide blue eyes rested in child-like faith on Hammer's face. "I'm a bit 'eavy for that there, sir, though I've A.B. papers. No sir, though I can do a bit o' navigation at a pinch, I'd feel more at 'ome like wi' figures. I writes a good 'and, sir, and I knows 'ow to 'andle port off'cers and such. If so be as you could use a supercargo, sir?"

Hammer turned to the Englishman, who was still eyeing Solomon doubtfully.

"How are we fixed for officers, anyway, Harcourt? I've got a grudge against fat men as a rule, but hanged if I don't admire this chap's nerve! A man who'll butt into a place like this to get a job must have something in him."

Harcourt rubbed his chin reflectively. "Well, the yacht has been laid up for six months and didn't have any crew, so Krausz agreed to place a dozen of his own men aboard her under a mate, if I'd find a chief officer and an engine-room crew.

"So far as standing watches is concerned, you can rank as first mate, unofficially, and I've already arranged for my old chief engineer to pick up his own men.

"A supercargo isn't absolutely essential, but Krausz is going to take a lot of stuff out to do his excavating with, as well as packing cases and all that bally impedimenta—my word, Hammer, I don't just know what to say!"

"Beggin' your pardon, sir," put in Solomon, as the other paused, "but I can take care o' port papers and such werry well, and 'ave A1 references. A supercargo ain't no use unless 'e's a lot o' use, I says, sir, and I goes on that princ'ple. What's more, Mr. 'Ammer, I knows a man as can fix you up wi' first off'cer's papers for a matter o' two pun and no questions asked."

The twinkle in the blue eyes drew an answering chuckle from the American, even Harcourt relaxing sufficiently to smile slightly.

"You seem to have your uses, certainly," said the Englishman dryly. "By the way, Hammer, where are you stopping?"

"I've stopped," grinned the American cheerfully. "My war-bag's aboard the ship still, but there's nothing in it worth carrying off. I have my pipe here, and no other clothes worthy the name.

"Then you'd better go home with me to-night," returned the other. "We'll do the opera first, if you like. To-morrow, you can take up your quarters aboard the Daphne, and we can talk over money matters at leisure.

"Now, John Solomon, you seem to have a fairly good idea of my business already, so I'll simply say that my yacht, the Daphne, is anchored at the Royal Thames docks and that you can go aboard whenever you please. As supercargo, you will join the officers' mess, of course, but I'll be aboard to-morrow and will fix things up with you, and you can sign articles then. And—er—about those bally papers—er—you had better get them."

"Yes, sir, I'll 'ave them to-morrow, sir," and John Solomon touched his forehead respectfully; but Hammer imagined that he caught something very like a wink from one of those wide blue eyes.

"Thank you werry much, Mr. Harcourt, and you, Mr. 'Ammer, and I'll be aboard bright and early, since it's the early worm what sees the bird first, as the Good Book says."

"Very good," rejoined Harcourt briefly, and so John Solomon passed forth from all the glory of Prince's, with his little black clay pipe wagging defiantly at the liveried doormen, and the place thereof knew him no more.

Although he had accepted the proffered partnership glibly enough, Hammer was by no means sure that he would stick to it, for various reasons. Chief among these was the fact that he had a profound distrust of himself; since he had deliberately thrown himself to the dogs, in a way, he had come to have a deep-rooted conviction that he was no good, that his better qualities mere surface outcroppings, and that a man such as Harcourt would like him less the better he knew him.

Still, he frankly liked Harcourt, and the idea of free-lancing about the ocean appealed strongly to him. But he had so long been battering down the better side of his own nature, the shock of his past trouble had so deeply bitten into his soul, that he could not look forward to the future with anything approaching hope.

His very promise to abstain from drink had been made solely because that was the only way in which he could accept Harcourt's offer, and not from any desire to regain his lost state.

"No," he told himself that night, alone in his room at Harcourt's apartments, "I guess I'm a wastrel, pure and simple. I've nothing to go ahead for, and I've got a devil of a lot to forget; if I can only get up enough interest in the yacht and in the places we visit and the work we do, then there's a chance that I can break even and stay decent for a while. And, Lord knows, it's about time!"

In which conclusion he was undeniably correct, much more so than in his foregoing premises. For Hammer was not nearly so unlikeable as he imagined; in the effort to cast his old life and his youthful mistakes far behind him he had plunged into the swiftest maelstrom he could find, as better men than he have done and will do, but he had managed to keep his head above water—much to his own surprise.

The good-humoured manner, which was at first an assumption to hide the hurts beneath, had finally become reality, and perhaps Harcourt had shrewdly reckoned on the fact that mental trouble is very likely to lessen and vanish beneath the light of friendship.

Harcourt himself was little bothered over his own financial crash. Accustomed to thinking little of money or its value, he did not trouble greatly about making his living now that his plans for the immediate future were settled. He was twenty-six, two years younger than the American, but he had taken the Daphne far around the seven seas, and in some ways was a good deal older than Hammer.

The following day, having procured other clothes than his dress-suit, Hammer went aboard the Daphne. She was a small but luxuriously furnished steam-yacht of a thousand tons burden, and having been already overhauled for the benefit of Dr. Krausz, was ready for sea, save for stores and crew; also, the archaeologist's "impedimenta", as Harcourt had termed it, had not yet come aboard. Hammer was delighted with her, and with Harcourt and John Solomon, put in a busy day.

Harcourt was well satisfied with his supercargo, for Solomon took charge of the purchasing of the stores, and not only procured them of excellent quality, but at an astonishingly low price.

He proved to have a thorough acquaintance with his duties, and also with the duties of the other officers, and promised to be on the whole an exceedingly useful man.

Nothing was seen of Dr. Sigurd Krausz during the next two days, but Hammer learned that the point of the expedition was a small bay near Melindi, on the East African coast, and that another part of the expedition was being sent ahead to make the preliminary excavations.

On the third morning Harcourt sent the American to Krausz's hotel to inform the professor that the yacht was ready for her lading and passengers, and now, for the first time, as a result of that sending, Cyrus Hammer found himself awakening to the fact that he had been suddenly transplanted into a group of peculiar individuals, from the aristocratic but "busted" viscount and the pudgy John Solomon to the unscientific-appearing scientist, and that there was a screw loose somewhere.

This was the manner of it. Being now in possession of his firstmate's certificate—"and no questions asked"—Hammer sent in his name and was admitted to the presence of the already-famous archaeologist. For Sigurd Krausz was not after the pattern Hammer had anticipated.

He was a rather thick-set man, clad only in pyjamas, and was at work over a desk full of papers. These he abandoned to greet Hammer, pulling the latter aside to the window as if to keep him away from the desk.

Then, through his host's négligé attire, Hammer saw that Krausz was a mass of muscles; his hand-grip was like iron, and his large head was set well back between his shoulders in a fashion which made him greet the world with out-flung jaw.

There was nothing very remarkable about the man's face, which was Saxon rather than Teutonic, save for the heavy-lidded eyes. The features were regular, of massive mould, and the ridge denoting the thinker overhung the eyes; but—and this Hammer did not observe at once—-the right temple was crossed by a nervous muscle, which throbbed like a ribbon underneath the skin.

On the whole, Hammer liked the scientist, deciding that while his face could be cruel upon occasion, it was the face of a strong man.

"I am very glad to see you, Mr. Hammer," exclaimed Krausz cordially, on learning the American's errand. He seemed in no hurry to return to his papers, but pressed Hammer into a chair and questioned him closely about the yacht, puffing the while at a long black panetela.

Thanks to his recent labours, Hammer survived the examination in good shape, and his personality seemed to make some impression on the German.

"I like you, yess, friend Hammer," remarked the latter, handing him one of the thin panetelas. "Also, I like Mr. Harcourt, and trust we will get on well together. You are American, yess? I like Americans, but not the British, for sailors. That iss why I am putting some of my own men aboard, for they will also serve as helpers in the work. You are interested in archaeology, yess?"

"Not in general," returned Hammer frankly. "However, I didn't know there was anything to be dug up on the east coast of Africa."

"Oh, plenty, plenty!" puffed the other, and after a long puff continued: "It iss some relics of Portuguese rule in Mombasa which I hope to find—relics more important ass ethnological and historic things than for their intrinsic value."

"By the way, I'd like to know just how many are in your party, doctor. Our steward wants to get the cabins in shape."

"My party? Nein, there will be but myself and my secretary going out. Professor Helmuth my assistant, leaves to-day for Mombasa to get things started, and coming back we will perhaps crowd the ship, yess.

"My second mate, Hans Schlak, will bring the men aboard to-morrow; if our necessary permits, and so on, arrive from the British Colonial Office, we will leave the day after. They should be here already. That iss satisfactory?"

"Perfectly—" began Hammer, when a third voice interrupted apologetically.

"In half an hour the Mombasa sails, Herr Doctor!"

Krausz turned with an exclamation. Shuffling out from a shadowed corner of the room, Hammer saw a black-clad, small, flat-chested man, with deep-set, furtive eyes, high brow, and retreating chin; the chin did not express weakness altogether, for it was rather the fox chin, which denotes cunning and ability. The doctor waved a hand.

"Mr. Hammer, my secretary, Adolf Jenson. Very good, Adolf; better take a taxi and deliver the papers in person. Remember, Professor Sara L. Helmuth, stateroom 12 B."

With this he turned to the desk and picked up a small black rubber wallet, which Jenson took with something very like a cringe, departing with an inaudible murmur of words.

Somewhat disgusted with the man, Hammer followed him, once more gripping the firm hand of Krausz and taking with him the remembrance of cordial words and an effusive smile from the big scientist.

The American stopped in the hotel entrance to light the doctor's cigar, and, as he glanced over his cupped hands, he saw something that astonished him. For there, just at the curb, and beckoning frantically to the nearest taxi, was no less a person than his supercargo, honest John Solomon!

Hammer stared in disbelief of his own eyes, since Solomon was at that moment supposed to be laying in a supply of extra cabin stores on the other side of the city.

But there was no mistake; even as the taxi drew up Solomon turned and waved his cap at some unseen individual farther up the street, then scrambled headfirst into the machine, his hurried words floating back to Hammer:

"P. and O. docks—the Mombasa! And 'urry or no tip!"

The taxi darted away, Hammer staring after it dazedly. What on earth could this mean? Why was this fat little Cockney supercargo of his chasing in a taxi-cab after a P. and O. liner due to sail in half an hour? Could it have any connection with the errand of the secretary, Adolf Jenson?

A flood of questions darted through Hammer's brain on the instant, and, giving way to the impulse, he sprang to the taxi which had drawn up to the curb in place of that taken by Solomon. Whatever the supercargo's purpose might be, Hammer determined to get down to the dock before the liner sailed and see what was going on, if possible. It might be a wild-goose chase, but on the other hand——

"P. and O. docks—I want to see the Mombasa go out, and she leaves in twenty minutes. Do it on the jump!"

The chauffeur grinned, and slammed the door. A moment later they were driving through the streets at a good speed, the American still pondering this surprising action of his harmless-looking little supercargo.

And Solomon had actually been talking of tips, when only a couple of days before he had dared much in order to capture a job! The whole affair was perplexing in the extreme.

"I never did like fat men, anyhow," reflected Hammer grimly. "That chap seemed to know a whole lot the first night we met, and I'll bet that he isn't the fool he looks by a long shot. But whatever got him mixed up with this Krausz business—if he is mixed up in it? I may be barking up the wrong tree, of course, and everything may be all right, so I'd better go slow if I catch him."

The conviction grew upon him during the remainder of his ride that he would have done much better to have waited, and to have questioned Solomon upon returning to the yacht.

The man might have friends leaving on the liner—but Hammer forgot his vague reasonings when the taxi drew up suddenly and he found the entrance to the docks of the Peninsula and Oriental just ahead.

The chauffeur had done his work well, for the journey had taken just fifteen minutes. Hammer found the dock gates open and pushed his way through the crowd; as he did so he passed the black-clad figure of Adolf Jenson.

But the meek little secretary did not look up, vanishing toward the gates; and the American glanced around for John Solomon in vain.

There was no trace of him in the crowd, and the ship had already been cleared of visitors. The waiting tenders had their lines out, and as Hammer gazed up the gang-plank was just being taken in.

The whistle crashed out, drowning the tinkle of bells, and at the same instant Hammer saw an officer walk hastily to the open gangway, accompanied by a small pudgy man, dressed in blue.

They stood talking together for an instant, then shook hands; the siren shrilled forth, and wharf-lines were cast off, and John Solomon leaped ashore with amazing agility, and was lost in the crowd.

Standing watching in sore perplexity, Hammer recalled the name of the scientist's assistant—"Professor Sara L. Helmuth". He turned and pushed back to his waiting taxicab, execrating his useless trip, for he was now convinced that it had been useless.

"I seem fated to get mixed up with people I don't like," he smiled to himself, as he was being driven back to the city, the Royal Thames docks being up-river. "First it's a blue-eyed fat man, and then it's a woman relic-hunter, to say nothing of that swine of a secretary. Sara L. Helmuth—gosh, what a name! I never did know a woman named Sara that was worth a darn for looks."

With which conclusion he paid off his chauffeur and walked the remainder of the distance in an irritable humour enough. This humour was by no means lessened when he saw John Solomon standing at the gangway, checking off some stores that were coming aboard, while a number of heavily-loaded wagons stood waiting by the foredeck, where a steam winch was getting into action and stevedores were bustling about.

"What's all this?" he demanded bluntly. "I thought you were in the city."

"No, sir," returned Solomon, not looking up. "I did take a bit of a run up, sir; but them 'ere wagons were a bringing of our lading, so I 'urried back. Werry fine day, sir."

Hammer grunted. "Tell the steward that there will only be two passengers. Dr. Krausz and his secretary. The crew will be aboard to-night or in the morning."

"Werry good, sir."

Solomon went calmly on with his lists while the extra cabin stores were brought up the gangway. Suddenly, as one of the trucks stopped for checking off, a case of tinned goods joggled over, and Solomon leaned forward, catching it before it fell.

The action flung his short blue coat up around his waist, and Hammer caught a glimpse of a black rubber wallet protruding from the man's hip-pocket. He recognized it instantly; it was the same wallet which Krausz had sent aboard the Mombasa an hour previously!

The American leaned quickly forward and snatched the wallet away. Solomon, having replaced the case, straightened up and whirled, and Hammer met his wide blue stare with a smile.

"You nearly lost this," he said coolly. "Nothing very valuable, I hope?"

Solomon's eyes widened a trifle.

"Lud, no, sir! Nothing more wallyble than my 'baccy, sir. If so be as a man likes 'baccy I says, then it's place ain't in a dirty pocket, but in a neat like pouch, says I. Werry kind o' you to save it for me, sir."

Ignoring the outstretched hand, Hammer opened the wallet, determined to test the truth of Solomon's explanation. He was convinced that this same black rubber pouch had contained the papers sent by Krausz to Professor Sara L. Helmuth, and that Solomon had, in some way, obtained them from the latter, or else from the meek secretary.

But his growing anger evaporated suddenly when the opened wallet showed nothing more than a vile-smelling flat plug of very black, molasses-impregnated tobacco.

"Yes, a good pouch, that," he said quietly, closing it up and handing it back to its owner, his face inscrutable. "Is Mr. Harcourt about?"

"In the saloon cabin, sir," and, nodding, the American went on board.

He looked back once and saw Solomon mopping his brow; for some reason the action seemed significant of relief on the part of the supercargo, and Hammer frowned.

"Confound it, I'd like to know a few things!" he muttered savagely. "I'll have a run-in with that fellow yet! Wish I hadn't stood up for him the other night at Prince's; I should have let Harcourt kick him out, and a good job."

And the events which were to follow kept the regret keen in his mind.

CHAPTER III
THE ROAD TO MELINDI

"Well, the beggar was jabbering Arabic with those three men behind the ventilator this morning, and his actions don't look good to me, Harcourt. Oh, you can laugh, and be hanged to you! I tell you that John Solomon has more brains than his position warrants, and that——"

"Oh, nonsense, old chap! Don't be so beastly suspicious; Solomon told me at Port Said that he knew a smattering of Arabic, and he's been tremendously handy. I say, look at those hills, eh?"

Hammer relapsed into sulky silence, and presently Harcourt left the bridge to him and sought his cabin, while the American remained staring moodily at the purplish-blue Jeb el Geneffeh hills to the south-west, for the Daphne was passing through the Bitter Lakes, midway of the Suez Canal.

Until reaching Port Said, the cruise had been perfect in every way, and his half-realized suspicions of John Solomon had completely fallen into abeyance.

As Harcourt said, the man had proved to be very useful, indeed; he seemed to have a perfect knowledge of port regulations everywhere; he attended to customs and pratique expeditiously, and almost made himself indispensable at mess, with his unfailing good humour and occasional fragments of home-made philosophy.

In fact, he seemed to have taken a liking to Hammer, and the American had begun to reciprocate it—until Port Said.

Here, barely an hour before they left for Suez, word was brought aboard that three of the German crew were in the hands of the Sudanese police. Dr. Krausz, who, with his secretary, had not left his cabin a dozen times during the cruise, went ashore with Harcourt in furious excitement, but returned considerably subdued.

It seemed that the three men had fallen foul of some French and Arabs in the native quarter, that a row had arisen, and one of the French had been stabbed.

Consequently, there was nothing to be done save to place the matter in the hands of the German Consul and go on, since Krausz did not wish to be detained pending the case.

As another of the crew was down with eye-trouble and ought to be left behind in hospital John Solomon had offered to pick up three or four natives who could make themselves generally useful, and after some hesitation, Krausz accepted, and the supercargo had promptly got his four Arabs aboard.

When, the next morning, Hammer had found Solomon talking Arabic with three of them in shelter of a ventilator, he had at once laid the affair of the black wallet before Harcourt, all his suspicions aroused.

But the Englishman laughed him down, and even Hammer had to admit that there was nothing very terrible about the pudgy little man. So while the Daphne pursued her course through the sandy wastes to Port Ibrahim and Suez, Cyrus Hammer gradually threw off his almost groundless suspicions and took on his usual good-humoured manner once more.

Hans Schlak, the second mate, was a big blond German—a Viking in appearance, slow and stolid, but thoroughly efficient in every way.

The men, too, were smart and well-behaved, responding so well to Harcourt's discipline that Hammer was not surprised to find that most of them had served in the German navy.

Beyond discharging her pilot and sending some letters ashore for the doctor, the Daphne made no stop at Port Ibrahim, and by next morning she was well on her way out of the gulf and down the Red Sea.

They were holding in somewhat to the Arabian coast, and Hammer, in charge of the bridge, was seated in the chart-house going over a lesson in navigation, when a figure darkened the doorway and John Solomon entered.

"Beggin' your pardon, Mr. 'Ammer, sir, but would you 'ave the kindness to let me take a bit of a look through the glass?"

"Well, I don't know that it would do any great harm," replied Hammer cheerfully. "Help yourself, Solomon. Want to get a last look at Asia, eh?"

"Yes, sir," came the sober answer, as Solomon procured a pair of binoculars. "You see, sir, I was down this 'ere way a few months ago. Werry interesting place, Mr. 'Ammer, and when so be as you finds an interesting place, I says——"

The rest was lost as Solomon directed a fixed gaze from the port doorway toward the distant coast, and he did not change his attitude for five minutes. Hammer watched him with some interest, until at length the other lowered the glasses with a sigh.

"Lud, what a bare coast she is, sir! If I might make so bold, sir, what be we a going to do after we reach Mombasa?"

"Why," smiled Hammer, "we're bound for a little harbour up the coast called Melindi. We'll have to leave the yacht at Kilindini harbour, after the trip up, and go to and from Melindi by launch, I suppose."

"Aye, sir; it's a werry bad place indeed, Melindi. And may I ask, sir, if so be as we're a-going to stay with the yacht or go with Dr. Krausz?"

"Not decided yet, Solomon, to my knowledge. Why, do you want to go along with the relic-hunters?"

"No, sir, though I'm werry interested in strange things. Beggin' your pardon, sir, Dr. Krausz is all werry well in his way, but 'is way ain't to me notion."

"So you don't like him? That's queer!" Hammer pulled out his pipe, and, accepting this as tacit permission, Solomon began to whittle at a plug which he had been holding ready.

The wide blue eyes came up and met his squarely, with just the suspicion of a frown hovering at their edges. Hammer decided that his supercargo might yet inveigle some expression into his face if he kept on in this way.

"No, sir; me 'umble opinion is that Dutchmen ain't to be trusted, not so far away from 'ome; and I've 'ad some experience. Do you think, sir, as 'ow Mr. Harcourt would give me a discharge at Mombasa? O' course, I signed on for the voyage, sir, but I 'ave me reasons for wantin' to be stopping off at Mombasa, so I comes to you all square and above-board. If you want a thing, why, ask for it ship-shape, as the Good Book says, sir. That's what I 'old to."

"Right," nodded Hammer. He was no little surprised at the request; but as it would have been easy enough to slip the yacht at Mombasa, the fact that Solomon asked for his discharge so long beforehand showed a desire on his part to play fair—and also to draw his pay on being discharged.

"I'll speak to the captain about it, Solomon, and I think it'll be all right. But we'll be sorry to lose you, for you've certainly been a great help to us."

"I'm sorry to be leaving you, sir," and the blue eyes opened a trifle wider. "Thank you werry much, Mr. 'Ammer."

This was to be a day of surprises for Cyrus Hammer, however. The day was cruelly hot, even the breeze created by the yacht's motion being stifling, and by noon Hammer, as well as Schlak and the others aboard, had stripped to pyjamas.

Very little had been seen of Dr. Krausz and Adolf Jenson; most of their meals had been served in their large cabin; and from the quantities of mail sent out at each port of call, it had been evident that the scientist was hard at work.

That afternoon, however, while Hammer was splitting a bottle of beer with Harcourt in the comparative coolness of the latter's cabin, the steward appeared. He was a quiet little Englishman, who had formerly acted as Harcourt's valet in more prosperous days, and had chosen to remain with his master.

"Mr. Harcourt," he said, hesitantly, "I'd like to ask you about something, sir."

"Very well, Roberts. What's on your mind, my man?"

"Why, sir"—and the steward twisted his cap nervously—"it's Dr. Krausz, sir. I'm—I'm afraid as he's going it a bit strong, Mr. Harcourt."

"Eh? What do you mean?"

"Why, him and that—that yeller-faced swine Jenson"—and Roberts spat out the words with a sudden viciousness that was astounding—"I've been a-taking them champagne, sir, all morning, and a half-hour ago Dr. Krausz he sent for a bottle o' brandy, sir. I thought, maybe, as how you might drop a word to him, sir. It's a mortal bad climate, you know, sir, for such goings-on."

Harcourt stared at the American, surprise plain in his eyes.

"My word!" he ejaculated. "I'd positively no idea that he was a tippler, 'pon my word! Has this been going on long, Roberts?"

"Off and on, sir, since we left Gibraltar. But not so heavy as this, Mr. Harcourt."

"Very good. You did quite right in telling me, but mention it to no one else, understand. You may go."

Left alone, the two looked at each other for a moment until Hammer chuckled.

"So our worthy doctor has fallen off the wagon, eh? Well, it's his funeral, cap'n, not ours. Better drop him a hint?"

"Eh? By Jove, no! I want no bally German telling me to keep my place! He knows what he's doing, Hammer, and I'm no nursemaid, so we'll let him drink himself to death if he likes. I'd much sooner see that fellow Jenson go overboard in a sack, for the doctor's quite a decent sort, don't you know."

"He might be worse," nodded Hammer. "Well, I'll be off and get a bit of sleep under the after-awning by the electric fan."

Here he managed to obtain a modicum of relief from the heat, and dropped off to sleep without troubling himself over the alcoholism of Dr. Sigurd Krausz.

How long he was asleep he had no idea, until he was aroused by an excited voice, which resolved itself into that of the doctor in question. Half-clad, dishevelled, and with furiously-flushed features, the archaeologist was disclaiming wildly in German to Hans Schlak, whose watch it was.

The two were standing by the starboard rail, and as Hammer raised himself on his hands the second mate cast a helpless glance at him. The American caught the look, and did not hesitate to break into the scientist's flow of words.

"Who's up on the bridge, Schlak?" he asked curtly. "You'd better get back before the captain——"

"Was ist?" Krausz lurched about with a black frown, and Schlak seized the chance to get away. At the same instant Roberts appeared, bearing a whisky and soda. He hesitated at sight of Hammer.

"Throw that stuff overboard, Roberts," commanded the later, rising. With a look of vast relief the steward obeyed. Krausz glared at them, and the American saw the peculiar ribbon of muscle beating furiously under the skin of his brow.

"How dare you!" burst forth the scientist. "Pig of an American, you do not your place know——"

He was swinging his fists wildly in the air, and by sheer accident managed to catch the tray of Roberts with a blow that sent it clattering to the deck. Hammer, angry, took a step forward and caught the German's wrists in a hard grip.

"Get command of yourself, doctor," he said quietly. "You're making a disgraceful scene here."

For an instant the other glared at him with bloodshot, maddened eyes which, despite his light-brown hair, were of the deepest black. Then. Hammer caught a ripple of the man's huge muscles, and he was flung violently back with a curse.

"Iss it not mine ship?" stormed the angry German. "Pig! Dog! I will show you——"

He rushed forward. Hammer, seeing that he had to deal with a sheer madman, wasted no more words but struck with all his weight behind the blow. His fist took Krausz full in the stomach. and with a single groan the big man shivered and collapsed in a heap.

"Roberts," and Hammer turned to the wild-eyed steward, "send two of the Germans here to carry the doctor to his cabin. Then see to it that I am called at four bells and not disturbed before then."

Poor Roberts fled hastily, and Hammer composed himself to sleep again. He would have thought little of the incident, nor did he expect that Krausz would remember it; but that evening the doctor appeared at mess—a very rare thing. His first act was to go up to the American with hand outstretched.

"My dear Mr. Hammer," he said, sincerity in his tone. "I deeply regret what took place thiss afternoon, and apologize to you for it. I——"

"Don't say any more, doctor," laughed Hammer, with an amused glance at the wondering Harcourt, who knew nothing of the occurrence. "It's really not worth bothering about, I assure you, and if anyone needs to be forgiven it is I."

"Not at all," beamed the other, but the muscle over his temple was beating hard. "By the way, you found no papers on the deck, yess?"

"I didn't notice any," returned the surprised American. "Why, did you lose something?"

"A paper, yess. Adolf believed me to have had it when I left the cabin. But no matter, my friend. We——"

"Hold on there!" cried Hammer quickly. "If you lost something, we'll look into it. Roberts! Was anyone else on the after-deck?"

"I saw no one, Mr. Hammer," returned the steward. "I called the two men, as you ordered."

Hammer frowned, but Krausz waved a hand and insisted that nothing mattered; and so the dinner proceeded, with a brief but frank explanation on the part of the scientist to Harcourt and John Solomon, Schlak still being on the bridge.

Hammer was about to relieve him when Krausz asked him to wait, as he wished to explain the purpose of his expedition.

This proved to be of little interest to the American, however. The doctor had discovered, some time before, a number of old manuscripts dealing with the Portuguese occupation of the Mombasa coast.

According to these, there was a place not far from Melindi where a fort had been established, and where, afterward, a number of vessels had been wrecked on their way from Goa to Lisbon.

The cargoes had been saved, but before they could be transferred to Mombasa an irruption of natives had destroyed the fort. It was believed that a great portion of valuable relics, with gifts from the Indian viceroy to the king of Portugal, and other such things, had been buried somewhere within the fort and had never been located.

These formed the object of the party's work; for if found they would be of great value to historians, more especially as there were many papers of interest supposed to be buried with the more intrinsically valuable articles.

The subject did not appeal particularly to Hammer; but Harcourt displayed keen interest, while John Solomon stared at Krausz with his blue eyes growing wider and wider.

"And you mean as 'ow to say that there 'ere loot is still there, doctor?" he broke forth at last. Krausz smiled blandly.

"Such is my hope, Mr. Solomon."

"Lud! The ways o' Prowidence are mysterious, as the Good Book says. To think o' loot a-laying buried for all this time waiting for you to dig it up! Once upon a time I worked for a relic-'unter, like you, sir. A fine, upstanding man 'e was, too. But I says, when there's summat dead, let it lie. It ain't proper to dig up the past, as the old gent said when 'e led 'is third to the altar."

"So you used to work for an archaeologist, yess?" and for the first time the doctor seemed to find John Solomon worthy of attention. "Where wass that?"

"A main long time back, sir—up in Palestine it was," and Solomon sighed reflectively.

Hammer, who was studying Krausz, suddenly saw the muscle in his brow begin to throb. He felt himself beginning to dislike that muscle vaguely.

"'Is name was—-dang it! I've been and forgot—no, I 'aven't neither! 'Is name was 'Elmuth!" he concluded triumphantly.

"Helmuth!" The word broke from Krausz and found echo in Hammer's mind. The heavy-lidded black eyes of the German were bent suddenly on Solomon. "The Herr Professor George Helmuth, yess, of the University of California?"

"That's 'im, sir!" Solomon's eyes sparkled. "American 'e was."

"H-m!" For some reason the doctor's face darkened. "Hiss daughter she iss my assistant, Mr. Solomon. She wass assistant curator at the Dresden Library. Well, my friends, I bid you good evening."

Hammer also departed to the bridge, pondering over the coincidence brought out by Solomon's words; and when Harcourt joined him for a smoke they chuckled over it together. The captain had already decided to let Solomon go at Mombasa, as there would be little need of his services for a time.

"Funny thing, that," remarked the Englishman. "Fancy a woman doing such work out here in Africa!"

"Oh, shucks!" laughed Hammer carelessly. "The kind of woman who goes in for that work—well, you know. Spectacles and Bibles and a blue pagari* on her sun-helmet."

* This is the correct spelling of the word, which is bastardized into puggaree or pugree, and other forms. The "Standard" will probably give pugaree, or some such spelling—Author.

So the matter passed, and for the time he forgot it. Indeed, Hammer was busier than he had been for many a day. Besides lessons in navigation from Harcourt, he was learning a smattering of Arabic from Solomon, and already could swear fluently at the four Arab sailors, who took a cheerful delight in adding to his vocabulary.

Also, he was rather surprised to find that he and Harcourt were drawing closer together with every day; that he was keenly interested in his new environment, and was looking forward to newer seas and lands with unalloyed anticipation.

In fact, he was beginning to see the falsity of his old attitude toward life, while the taste of authority was sweet to him. Already the past had faded out in his mind, save for occasional twinges of bitterness, at which times he plunged into his work and was astonished at the ease with which the mood passed.

So the days flew by until the Daphne had rounded Cape Guardafui and the last leg of the journey was begun, down the east coast of Africa. They were still three days out from Mombasa when Hammer, who had the second dog watch, went to Schlak's cabin on being relieved by Harcourt.

He wanted to ask the second officer about some detail of the chart; and since it was nearly dark, and he made no noise in his pumps, his approach must have been unheard.

As the door was slightly ajar, Hammer merely pushed it open with a word and stepped in. He heard one sharply-drawn breath, and in the gloom found himself facing Adolf Jenson, whose face was absolutely livid.

An instant, as he switched on the light, the American saw the body of Hans Schlak lying on the floor at his feet, a knife-shaft between the shoulders.

CHAPTER IV
WHO MURDERED HANS SCHLAK?

"My God! Don't look at me like that, sir—I didn't do it!"

Trembling in every limb, the secretary shrank back against the berth, staring up at Hammer with horrified eyes.

The American, to whom Jenson was repulsive, made no attempt to lay a finger on the man, but stood looking at him with sternly questioning eyes; palsied with fear, the fellow babbled out protestations of his innocence until suddenly Hammer waved him silent.

"That's enough from you. How long have you been here?"