John Solomon—Supercargo

CHAPTER V

THE ADVENTURE BEGINS

Now, it is not to be expected that when a man has been living for three years among "stiffs" and "sunfish", with only occasional lapses into decency, he can suddenly turn around and rank as a gentleman and a scholar for ever after, with never a fall from grace.

It would be very nice to chronicle such a miracle in the life of Cyrus Hammer, and would, no doubt, afford great pleasure to the average reader; but it would afford great disgust to the average student of human nature, such as John Solomon.

"Regeneration is all werry well," as that peculiar individual said, "but it ain't to be 'ad with a 'op, skip, and jump, I says. 'Umans is 'umans, and nature ain't to be denied, as the parson remarked when 'e smashed the constable in the eye. If so be as a man's a saint, why, 'is place ain't 'ere on earth, says I."

Accordingly, in the due course of events, Hammer and the rest were entertained at the Mombasa Club, where Harcourt found numerous old friends now "in the service".

These, with the American Consul, were so cordial to Hammer that he and Harcourt spent one glorious evening around a punch-bowl at the club, and about midnight Hammer was lost in the shuffle. At 3 A.M. he was located by a native policeman, who patiently extricated him from the embraces of a half-caste Portuguese and two sailors from an oiler in port.

The extrication was a matter of time and trouble, Hammer vowing that he was not being shanghaied and had no intention of being so; and before the question was settled the half-caste had a broken head, two constables were hors de combat, and half Mombasa was watching the riot in unholy glee—for Hammer managed to hold the cathedral steps against all comers until taken from behind.

Undoubtedly, it was a highly disgraceful scene, and Hammer was duly contrite when his fine had been paid and he was returned to the yacht. Harcourt made no mention of the occurrence thereafter, and the American savagely determined not only to stay away from the club but to get out of Mombasa altogether.

Wherefore it was not long until he was given charge of the "impedimenta" belonging to Dr. Krausz, and found himself steaming up the coast aboard the government packet Juba with half a dozen of the crew.

Krausz himself had gone on to Melindi as soon as the investigation into the death of Schlak was finished. And it was quickly finished, for the authorities, after hearing the evidence, directed that the finding of the Daphne's log be confirmed, there being no direct evidence against either Solomon or Jenson.

Whereupon the former had at once drawn his pay and disappeared, and the latter had gone to Melindi with his master in the yacht's launch. Harcourt remained in charge of the yacht for the present.

The trip up-coast was fairly uneventful, and at Melindi he found Jenson waiting with the launch in which to take the men on. He himself was given a native guide, and was forced to get the boxes unshipped two miles from shore, swung into surf boats, landed, and then loaded onto a gang of Kiswahili porters to be taken overland. From the Kiswahili guide Hammer extracted the information that their destination was two days' march north from Melindi, and, perforce, he resigned himself to the situation, roundly cursing Jenson for leaving him in the lurch.

An English cotton-planter whom he met on the wharfs came to the rescue, however, took charge of his boxes and porters, and set off with him for the first few miles—for all of which Hammer was intensely grateful.

He was like a child in a strange house, at first; but by the time the planter stopped off at his own place the American had got into the swing of things. The planter sent him down a couple of boys for personal attendants, and after Hammer had attended to one insolent porter he had no further trouble whatever.

They were headed for a small ruined fort, dating from the Portuguese occupation, which lay sixteen miles up the coast from Melindi. Owing to the difficulties of the march and the roundabout track they were compelled to follow, it was not until the evening of the second day that the guide declared the fort to be near at hand.

It had formerly been built at the head of a small bay, but, owing to changes in the conformation of the coast, the sea had left it a half-mile away and the bay had vanished.

As the little safari broke from a thicket of brush and trees Hammer saw the ruins on a small eminence from which the trees had been cleared.

At one side were two large tents, with the smaller tents and brush huts of the native workmen scattered down the hillside. There seemed to be no one in sight, however, and Hammer sent the guide on to stir up Dr. Krausz or his assistants.

He was in an ill-humour, and made no secret of it. On that two days' march he had been tortured by insects, irritated by his porters, and plagued by the remembrance of what had occurred at Mombasa; he decided that he thoroughly hated East Africa, and longed to be once more out at sea on the bridge of the Daphne.

"By Godfrey," he ejaculated, staring at the silent camp ahead, "when I get out of this devilish country I'll stay out! The ocean is good enough for me, and no mistake. I wonder what's happened to this place, anyhow? Where are all those Dutchmen?"

The guide had run ahead to the two large tents, where a few other natives appeared, talking to him. Above, the cleared hilltop showed long lines of ruined stone-walls three or four feet in height, crowned by one or two spreading mimosa-trees which had evidently been too large for removal.

It was a naked-looking place, with the deep jungle behind and around and running down toward the shore where the sunset gleam was striking the ocean and the eastern skies to flame, and Hammer wondered where water came from for camp use—a thought born of his late experiences.

This was answered by the sight of two or three Kiswahili coming from the ruins with kettles, and the American realized that the fort must have been built around a spring or well.

The porters slowly wound up the hill, singing happily enough, and half a dozen natives crowded around the guide as he returned to meet them. All were capering and dancing like children, but Hammer was in no mood to handle them gently.

"Well," he snapped, "where are the sahibs?"

"They are not here, sar," returned the guide. "Here is one man from them," and he pointed to a grinning fellow who stepped out boldly.

"I am Potbelly, sar; very good mission-boy," he announced complacently. "Missy Professor she say she not see you, not well in the stomach. The Herr Doctor, he went off this morning, sar, with all men hereabouts, in order to engage native help from nigger village inside of the coast. He will be back very immediately, sar, and Missy Professor say you take tent——"

"You're blamed right, I'll take his tent," ejaculated Hammer angrily, "and you see that these boys are attended to after the stuff is piled—savvy?"

Potbelly savvied and guided Hammer to one of the two large tents. Here he found comparative comfort, his two personal boys making a bath ready; but his reception was vexing in the extreme.

The Missy Professor, of course, was Professor Sara L. Helmuth. She probably had the other tent, with her own attendants, and of course Krausz would never have gone off and left her alone unless she was perfectly safe here. The doctor was losing no time, evidently, since he was already off engaging workmen and getting things under way.

The chop-box which the planter had sent with his boys had been used up, and as there was no sign of eatables about the doctor's tent, Hammer changed into some of the German's clothes and went forth to investigate in a vile temper.

His proficiency in Arabic, of a sort, had vastly increased since leaving Melindi, and, finding that the natives were gathered about the boxes which he had brought outside Professor Helmuth's tent, he strode into the midst and demanded dinner.

Now, whether it was that the American over-estimated the intelligence of the Kiswahili and Arab half-castes, or whether the absence of Potbelly in his mistress's tent left the other boys helpless, nothing ensued save a violent jabbering, in which every native tried to talk at once, the whole gradually rising to a shrill outburst of angry shouts, and Hammer's temper gave way.

Relying on the safety of his Arabic the American made himself heard above the uproar, lashing about with a convenient bullock-whip hide and pouring out a raging flood of invective and expletive.

Before the face of his anger the Kiswahili melted away in terror, and long ere his rage was exhausted he found himself standing alone, glaring around vainly for someone on whom to finish his vocabulary.

A moment later Potbelly appeared jauntily from Professor Helmuth's tent, bearing a slip of paper. With a watchful eye on the whip he handed it to Hammer and skipped out of reach, vanishing with a final grin. The American opened the paper, and was dumbfounded. He read:

DEAR SIR:

I would thank you to remember that there is a lady within hearing. If common decency will not restrain your language, I shall be compelled to take other measures which will have that effect. SARA L. HELMUTH.

"Good Lord!" gasped Hammer in dismay. "I never had any idea—why, she must know Arabic! Oh, darn it all, anyway—I wish I was out of this confounded place! Mixed up with blue-eyed fat men and short-haired women and Dutchmen—good night!"

The Kiswahili had vanished. Potbelly had vanished. Even the daylight had almost vanished, and without a word Hammer flung down the whip, tore the note into pieces and threw it to the breeze, then turned to the tent of the "lady professor", as he mentally termed her.

"Very sorry, Professor Helmuth." He raised his voice, but without especial civility in his tone. "I apologize, of course. I didn't know you understood Arabic. I'll trouble you no more."

As no answer came he returned to the other tent, and in desperation seated himself on a camp-stool. With his pipe alight, he faced the fast-gathering shadows outside, and a few moments later was startled by a wild outburst of yells.

Knowing nothing of the country, when the yells grew closer and more threatening the American leaped to the conclusion that the natives were on the war-path, and he leaped up.

Almost at his side stood a heavy, double-barrelled shotgun, and, making sure that this was loaded, he stepped to the front of the tent to investigate. No one seemed to be in sight, for darkness was almost on the camp; but, seeing a light in the other tent, he walked toward it with the idea of defending the lady professor.

The place was an inferno, what with the shrill yells and occasional shots; and from the noise, Hammer concluded that the camp must be surrounded by hundreds of men.

Suddenly a dark figure loomed up in the dusk a few feet away, and instantly he brought up his weapon.

"Hold on!" he shouted angrily. "Who the devil are you?"

For answer he felt the barrel of the gun gripped and flung up, and found himself looking into the wrong end of a revolver. Then——

"Mein Gott! It iss Mr. Hammer!"

"Krausz—good Lord, I nearly plugged you. man! What's going on here, an attack?"

The other stared at him a moment, their faces close. Hammer was quick to observe a startled suspicion in the Teuton's heavy features, and the revolver did not go down.

"What are you doing with that gun?" demanded Krausz threateningly.

"Holding it," was the American's laconic response. Then, at a fresh outburst of yells: "You aren't going to stand here and be murdered, I hope?"

"Murdered? Hein?" For an instant the other was puzzled, then his teeth flashed in a sudden laugh as he understood.

"Oh, you thought it wass an attack, yess? And so you got out the gun—ho-ho! Come to my tent—— Pardon, me, but I must laugh, for it iss but my home-coming, Mr. Hammer. Have you dined?"

"I haven't anything. I'm stiff and sore and grouchy, and all I want is to get out of this blasted country as quick as I can."

The doctor laughed again, and they returned to the tent together. Before Krausz had finished his bath the camp had undergone a transformation in Hammer's eyes. Fires had been built, around which masses of natives were grouped; there was a smell of roasting meat in the air, and brush huts were being quickly put up by the dozen.

Jenson received a sound berating for not having attended to Hammer's wants in better fashion at Melindi, and by the time they sat down to mess with the secretary and Baumgardner, the American was feeling more like himself.

Still, he reflected, if the country was as peaceable and quiet as the scientist declared it to be, that revolver had flashed out with marvellous promptitude.

Professor Helmuth had been on the ground nearly two weeks, and had made things ready generally against the doctor's arrival, with the assistance of a few mission-boys.

The Kiswahili, it seemed, had refused to leave their fields to work for a woman, even at the urging of the district commissioner; but Krausz had easily procured two hundred of them, who would dig trenches and bring in food supplies for the whole camp.

Now that he was here, he confidently predicted that things would go forward with a rush; but whether it was the champagne, served abundantly with dinner, or whether the remembrance of that flourished revolver still stuck in Hammer's crop, he did not exactly like the way in which the archaeologist referred to his assistant.

He learned that the lady professor kept strictly to herself after working hours, even to taking her meals apart; and this did not raise her in the American's estimation.

In her position, he considered, she should frankly accept such things and not be so stuck on conventions. None the less, when he expressed himself in such wise f Dr. Krausz took it as a huge joke and poked Jenson familiarly in the ribs, upon which another bottle of champagne was opened.

Hammer, who had absorbed his full share in his bitterness of spirit, suddenly felt out of humour with the Teutonic attitude of mind toward women in general. Spectacles or no spectacles, if the lady hailed from California then she ought to have more sense, and probably these Germans had handled her coarsely. So he leaned over the table and said as much with the innate earnestness of his convictions.

"Nein," returned the doctor good-humouredly; "I am not German, but Saxon, yess! So you think she wass not asked rightly, Mr. Hammer? Perhaps if you asked her then she might come, no?"

"By Godfrey, if she's American I'd take a gamble on it!" blurted out Hammer, and wagged a long forefinger under the nose of Krausz. "I'll bet you that I could get her over quick enough! I'll bet a million dollars I could do it!"

"So?" The archaeologist turned and leered heavily at the others. "You hear, gentlemen? Then it iss a bet—a bet of one million dollars, yess! The fräulein, she does not like to eat with you, Jenson, hein!"

Jenson babbled something, Baumgardner boomed out a stolid assent, and Hammer had a sudden conviction that if he took another glass of champagne he was going to be very very drunk indeed, whereupon he removed his shoes and climbed inside the doctor's mosquito shelter.

In the morning he realized that that extra glass would have been entirely superfluous, to judge from his head. It was after nine, but he had a tub and a cup of coffee and felt considerably improved, and, finding from the boys that everyone was at work on the hill, he donned his new sun-helmet and started for the ruins above.

Each of the German sailors had charge of a gang of fifteen or twenty natives, and trenches were being laid out between the lines of the old walls, under the supervision of Krausz, who sat beneath a grass-thatched shelter at a table with Jenson. The doctor greeted him with a cordial grin, though for some reason—probably the heat—the ribbon of muscle in his temple was throbbing noticeably.

"And the fräulein—she will dine with us this evening?"

"Huh?"

Hammer stared, astonished, until the wager was brought slowly to his recollection. Then he looked around in some dismay, but the lady professor had not left her tent and the doctor failed to assign any reason thereto.

"Then I guess she won't leave for me," and Hammer ruefully related the incident of the note he had received the evening before, at which the doctor laughed uproariously, and even Jenson cracked a sly smile. Krausz explained that Professor Helmuth was an expert in Semitic languages, and also that the bet was off.

"Your beastly champagne did it," said Hammer irritably.

"But listen!" Earnestness swept into the doctor's heavy black eyes and his hand went to the American's arm. "If you will do it, yess, I will pay one hundred dollars——"

"You'll—what?" Hammer stared at him a moment, then flung off the hand as he turned away. "Been hitting up the booze again this morning, have you? I'll thank you to get that launch ready for me to get back to Melindi in. As for your she-professor, I'll have her over to dine this evening just to show you what a blooming fool you are, doctor. Then I'll start back in the launch after dark. I've had enough of this place."

How his remarks were received he did not see, for he strode downhill without once looking back. But the scientist's offer to pay him for getting Professor Helmuth to dine with them was both disgusting and illuminating.

It filled him with distaste for everything German—or Saxon—with particular emphasis upon Krausz' ribbon of muscle; and it also made him wonder why the she-professor was refusing to honour the general mess with her company. Did she carry primness to such a limit?

"I'll fix her," he said, and upon reaching his tent sent a boy for Potbelly. When that individual appeared, Hammer gave him his name, stated that he was an American, and said to tell Professor Helmuth that he intended to call on her in ten minutes.

Potbelly's grin vanished and he looked ugly instantly, whereat Hammer took him by the shoulder and assisted him from the tent with a kick.

He watched Potbelly disappear inside the other large tent, then sat down and smoked his pipe.

When the ten minutes were up he promptly knocked the ashes out of his pipe, began to whistle and started for the other tent.

Potbelly looked out, vanished again, and the next minute the tent-flap was pushed aside and Hammer obtained his first view of Professor Sara L. Helmuth—and he was undoubtedly the most astonished man in the whole of British East Africa at that instant.

CHAPTER VI

THE LADY PROFESSOR

The American's dreams of spectacles and blue pagaris was swept away, for standing facing him with expectant eyes was—a girl or a woman, Hammer could not tell which.

There was some mistake, of course; self-possessed, cool, deliberate in word and look as she was, this slender, brown-haired, brown-eyed girl could not be the austere mistress of Semitic tongues——

"I beg your pardon," he found himself stammering weakly. "I didn't mean that message for you; I wanted to see Miss Helmuth, the scientific person who doesn't like my Arabic cuss-words."

A trace of red crept through her cheeks, but her eyes held his with no response to the whimsical laugh of him.

"I am Miss Helmuth," she said coldly enough, not moving that he might enter the tent, and appraising him keenly as she spoke.

Hammer stared at her in open disbelief, but not for long. Something in the curve of the dark eyebrows and the set of the girlish mouth, something in the poise of the small head, gave a hint of resolution and firmness—and Hammer took the hint.

"Ah," and he bowed with his fine smile, "I trust you will pardon my surprise. I was looking for a spectacled, gaunt lady of uncertain age, and never expected to find——"

"I am not interested in your expectations, Mr. Hammer," her reply came coldly. "What is your business with me?"

Again Hammer was taken all aback and could not quite readjust himself.

"Why—er——" It struck him that she would think that he was attempting to flirt with her, and the thought sent him floundering deeper. "You see, Miss—Professor, I mean—Professor Helmuth, I'm first officer of the Daphne, and—— Oh, blame it all! Honest, Miss Helmuth, get that look off your face or I'll run!"

A flicker of amusement came into her brown eyes, then it passed, and her look hardened strangely. Hammer could almost have imagined that she had been crying not so very long ago.

"Really, Mr. Hammer, I think that would be the best thing you could do. I have no desire to have any dealings with you whatever. Kindly state your business and go."

"Well, that's flat enough, anyhow." Hammer's eyes flashed for a second. "But I must say that such downright discourtesy doesn't go with your looks, professor, though anything might be expected of this outfit.

"Still, as an American, you ought logically to be a little more human and a little less priggish. If we were on Fifth Avenue I wouldn't blame you, but here in Africa I should think you'd have more sense."

She gazed at him, her eyes widening, as if this direct attack startled and surprised her. Hammer was instantly contrite.

"Well, I apologize again, professor. You certainly riled me up for a minute, and I'm sorry I expressed myself so bluntly. I guess Krausz wasn't to blame so much as I thought he was, if you handled him like that. You see, I came over to ask you if you wouldn't show up at——"

"So you dare to carry out that bet made in a drinking bout with that man Krausz and his associates?" Poor Hammer's jaw dropped as she straightened up, anger in every feature, and fairly flung the words at him.

"Haven't I been put to enough shame without having my name bandied about over the wine and cigars? For a moment you nearly deluded me into thinking you a man of another kind, Mr. Hammer."

"Eh? Say, professor, I don't think I'm wise to all this business by a long shot! Look here—— No, don't fire up yet for a minute—— Tell me how you knew about that affair? It's true, of course——"

There was scorn in her eyes as the American stopped, embarrassed.

"If you want to know, I heard of it through one of my boys, who got it from your own boys. Now, Mr. Hammer, you know the penalty attached to entering this tent. If you dare to attempt it, either you or your associates, I shall carry out my threat to the letter. You may carry back that report. Good day."

With that she turned inside, but before she could lower the flap Hammer sprang forward. His mind was in a swirl, and he only realized the one great fact that this woman had a very wrong idea of him and of his intentions. Catching the flap from the outside, he paused as she whirled on him indignantly.

"Just a minute, Miss Helmuth! Look here! I'm not an associate of Dr. Krausz, in the first place, and in the next I don't intend to carry back any report. But I do want to square myself with you, honest, and I think you might give me a chance."

He found himself, for the second time within twenty-four hours, looking squarely into the muzzle of a revolver which she had plucked from the table behind her.

"You step inside this tent, Mr. Hammer, and I fire."

"But, confound it!" he cried, astounded, "I haven't done——"

"Let go that flap and get out of here!"

Helplessly, Hammer stared into her brown eyes and read determination there. He made one more attempt, however.

"Please listen to reason, professor! I'm not trying to put anything over on you; all I want is to get out of this accursed place and to make you look at the thing straight before I go. I didn't know I'd got in so bad——"

"Let go that flap or I'll have my boys force you out of here bodily!"

The brown eyes were blazing with fury, but Hammer thought that never had he seen a woman look so beautiful, so capable of taking care of herself, so thoroughly efficient.

Realizing that she was in no mood to be argued with, however, he obeyed her command; and as he turned on his heel a single word broke from him with uncontrolled emphasis:

"Damn!"

The grinning face of Potbelly peered at him from a corner of the tent, and he strode back to the other canvas with his ears burning. It would have been a bad moment for any who had interfered with him just then, and perhaps the cunning Kiswahili recognized the fact, for they kept well out of his way.

The humiliation of the interview was maddening to him; and when he called the boys who had been loaned him by the planter and found that they had slipped home early that morning, he was in savage humour.

For a moment he determined to return to the tent of Professor Helmuth and dare her to carry out her threat, but second thought decided him against it.

She had been in earnest beyond any doubt—but why? From the very face of her, she had too much good hard sense to be the prig Krausz had painted her; and why should she be willing to carry out so desperate a threat?

At this he recalled her words: "You know the penalty attached to entering this tent." Why had this girl set such a penalty? That she had done so, publicly, was evident from her words, nor did she bear Dr. Sigurd Krausz any great love; yet she was his assistant; she had come out from Dresden in charge of the preliminary work; she must have known him well before she started; and, above all, Krausz was an eminent man in his line of work.

Yet Hammer knew only too well how a man, once away from his natural environment, may do things he never would have dreamed of doing otherwise. Could it be that Dr. Krausz, or others of the party, had insulted the girl?

"By Godfrey! That name Sara isn't so bad after all, come to think of it," and Hammer rose, frowning. "I guess I'll go up and see that chap. If he's been cutting any didoes around here I'll show him a few things. I wish Harcourt was here; I'm blessed if I know what to make of it all!"

He passed the she-professor's tent and strode up the hill; for if there was to be trouble with the doctor, he wanted to have it over with at once.

And as he went he patted the side-pocket of his coat, where his old-style revolver still reposed; he remembered the way Krausz had whipped out his weapon the evening before, and the thought was hardly reassuring.

He found the doctor as he had left him, and under the direction of the Germans the natives were beginning to make the dirt fly. Krausz looked up, his heavy eyes narrowing slightly at sight of the American's face; then he smiled cordially.

"Well, Mr. Hammer? And how did you find the fräulein!"

"A darned sight worse than I expected," returned Hammer frankly. "See here, doctor: I'd like to know why she won't let a man enter her tent under pain of firing at him, and why she's holding a grudge against you?"

The ribbon of muscle began to beat under the skin of the other's brow, though Krausz's expression never changed. Jenson apparently, paid no attention.

"Pouf!" The big Saxon spread his hands with a Continental shrug. "My dear fellow, it iss her fancy. What can you expect? She hass never been here in Africa before, and she iss nervous. Ass to dissliking me, why should she? Wass I not her father's friend before he died?"

"How the devil do I know? It's a cinch she hasn't any love for you, doctor; and I'd like to know why that girl has to barricade herself in her tent, that's all. What's more, she isn't the sort to be nervous."

Hammer looked down at the other, hands on his hips, his brown face determined. He realized that he was beginning to dislike the sight hissing accent of his employer, no less than that curious muscle in the forehead, and the aggressive note in his voice was thinly veiled.

Krausz seemed surprised at the change in his first officer, and once more his eyes narrowed; but this time they were menacing—so menacing that Hammer felt uneasy.

"Are you her guardian, Mr. Hammer?"

"No; but I'm an American, and I used to be a gentleman."

"Then you will please not interfere in a family affair, my friend. I am her guardian, the executor of her father's estate——"

"Now, see here, doctor. I'm not hunting trouble, understand; but I'm fairly competent to handle any that comes my way. To know Semitic languages and be curator in a big Dresden library takes time and work; besides, I can tell from that girl's face that she's of age. You're not her guardian any more than I am, if you want it straight."

"My dear sir, you missunderstand! Yess, she iss twenty-three years of age, but I wass her guardian, ass she will tell you. I wass her father's best friend, and in my arms he died, yess. It wass I who got her that library position. Ah, come!" Krausz rose quickly and patted Hammer on the shoulder, smilingly. "You and I, we are too big men, yess, to be losing good humour over a little girl! Lieber Gott! Iss she not to me like a daughter, no? Come down to luncheon, my friend, and over a bottle will we forget all thiss——"

"No more bottles, I guess," said Hammer decidedly. None the less, the scientist's words had their effect. "However, I don't want to butt in, doctor, and I'm sorry I made a mistake. I go back to-night, I suppose?"

"Yess; Baumgardner shall take you in the launch."

So the matter was closed. The American still felt a trifle uneasy; but Dr. Krausz' words had placed the affair in a new light before him, and he forced himself to the belief that he had interfered in some petty quarrel where he had no concern. Krausz had succeeded in spiking his guns.

With Jenson and Baumgardner, they sat down to a very enjoyable lunch in the doctor's tent; for Krausz seemed to have brought no end of chop-boxes from Mombasa, and the natives had fetched in plenty of fruit, vegetables, and fresh meat.

Even Jenson seemed to attain some semblance of life, almost growing enthusiastic over the work that had been begun; and the American found Krausz cordial and entertaining as he had rarely been before. He had an unfailing supply of his long black panatelas; and while all four of them were sitting smoking and chatting over their coffee, there came a sudden interruption.

"Hodi!"

All turned. There, standing unconcernedly in the doorway, was a native streaked with sweat, his eyes roving from face to face, a heavy fold of skin hanging in the slit lobe of one ear. Several of the camp-boys stood behind him uncertainly. Once more he repeated the Kiswahili greeting.

"Hodi!"

"Karibu," grunted Krausz; and then in English: "Who are you? What is it?"

"Bwana Hammer?" came the laconic query.

"That's me!" exclaimed the American. "What do you want?"

The Kiswahili looked him over for a second, then nodded as if to himself and drew the skin from his ear-lobe. From it he took a small packet and handed it to the American, after which, not deigning to say another word, he turned and stalked away.

"Well, that's a funny proposition!" exclaimed Hammer, staring at the heavy little object in his hand. The others said nothing, but Krausz smoked furiously as he watched. Out of sheer decency Hammer felt that he mast open the thing before them, and proceeded to do so, wondering greatly what it was and why the bearer had not been more loquacious.

Unwrapping a heavy fold of tissue-paper, he caught a little silver ring that leaped out into his hand. It was a cheap thing enough, and he remembered having seen just such things sold to tourists at Port Said, with "Arabic initials engraved while you wait."

Sure enough, looking closer at it, he perceived a thin tracery on the signet side; but his slight knowledge of Arabic did not extend to reading the language, and he passed it over to the doctor with a surprised laugh.

"Can you read Arabic, doctor?"

"Nein. Wass there no writing?"

"Not a scrap," said Hammer. "Let's get that boy back here."

The messenger was sent for, but he proved to have left camp without waiting to so much as be fed—a thing unusual, to provoke comment from the other natives.

"Well"—and Dr. Krausz shrugged his shoulders as he rose—"there iss some misstake, or the letter hass been lost. It iss but a trifle. We must get back to work, my friends, for the afternoon iss getting on."

The others rose with a sigh, and they went off together, Hammer stretching out luxuriously on a cot and wondering afresh where this mysterious little ring could have come from, and what the engraving meant. It was irritating, from its very littleness, while the strange conduct of the messenger refused to be explained away.

If the thing had come from Harcourt it would have had some word with it. In any case, what reason would Harcourt have for sending such a thing?

It had probably come from Melindi, however, and Hammer had not the faintest idea of who could have sent it from there.

The odd part of it was that the worth of the ring itself must be far below the cost of the messenger's services, nor was there any apparent reason for the ending of it.

"By Godfrey," thought Hammer suddenly, "I'll send it over to Miss Helmuth!"

Clapping his hands, he sent a boy for Potbelly. Since the Lady Professor was an adept at Arabic to the extent of understanding certain expressions which would hardly bear adequate translation, Hammer saw no reason why she could not decipher the engraving for him.

After he had sent the boy he hesitated, remembering the humiliation he had already passed through; but a moment later Potbelly appeared at the entrance of the tent.

"Come here," said Hammer curtly, holding out the ring. "You see this? Take it to Professor Helmuth. Ask her to tell what this means—— Why, what the devil's the matter with you?"

Potbelly's grin had faded suddenly; rather, it had been frozen into a ghastly semblance of mirth, and he looked from the ring to Hammer with absolute terror.

"You savvy him, Bwana?" he whimpered. "You savvy Bwana John?"

"What Master John?" repeated the American suspiciously, then grinned. "John Jones or John Solomon?"

To his intense amazement, Potbelly merely whimpered again, then turned, speaking over his shoulder as he went through the door.

"You come, Bwana. I think mebbeso Missy Professor she see you."

"Well, I'll be darned!" murmured Hammer, and followed like a man in a dream.

CHAPTER VII

HAMMER STARTS SOMETHING

The American was at a loss to make out what had happened to Potbelly. The mission-boy had arrived grinningly, almost insolently, and after a look at the ring he had seemed to be transfixed by terror. What was there about that ring to create such an impression? Certainly it looked harmless enough, and Herr Krausz would have observed anything unduly curious about it.

From inside the tent of Professor Helmuth he could hear, as he waited, Potbelly's voice rising shrilly, though the words were lost. Then came a softer, deeper voice, which he recognized as that of the lady in question. He grinned to himself as he remembered her cool determination of that morning.

"I guess Potbelly's having his troubles about now," he thought. "By Godfrey, I'll have to get to the bottom of this mystery some way! And the only way to do it, I guess, is to have a frank explanation with Professor Sara L. Helmuth—bless her brown eyes! I wonder why I never liked that name Sara before now!"

Hammer was still cogitating this all-important point when he saw Potbelly's black visage appear from the tent-flap, and the boy beckoned hastily. The American, holding the ring in his hand, stepped to the tent door.

Sara L. Helmuth, professor and mistress of Semitic languages, was sitting at the table inside, a revolver ready to her hand.

Simply and coolly dressed in white, with her rippling brown hair coiled loosely on her head, she offered an extremely attractive picture to Cyrus Hammer, is spite of the circles of weariness and trouble about her eyes.

He had always felt a weakness for women who were self-reliant without becoming, as he had phrased it, "short-haired", and that she was such a woman had been evident from the first. Moreover, the doctor had said that she was just twenty-three.

She did not rise, but stood looking at him for a moment, and Hammer felt that to her the situation was, for some reason, very grave. Instinctively he sympathized with her, and under the thought his face lost its harder outlines, though it retained to the full all its rugged, healthy strength. Then she waved her hand toward a camp-stool just inside the door.

"Sit down, Mr. Hammer. Make sure the boys are watching, Potbelly."

The mission-boy disappeared. Hammer felt unaccountably at a loss, as though all his assurance were ebbing away beneath her steady gaze, and waited for her to speak.

"Potbelly tells me, Mr. Hammer, that you have come from Mr. Solomon. If that was true, why did you not speak of it this morning?"

"Eh?" he stammered, utterly bewildered. "Mr. Solomon? You mean John Solomon?"

"Who else would I mean?"

"Why—Miss Helmuth, I—you can search me! I haven't come from John Solomon, not that I know of. What's got into that fellow of yours, anyway? Now please don't look like that"—for she had suddenly stiffened in her chair, her eyes cold—"but I can't make head or tale of this thing, professor. That's straight!

"I didn't tell Potbelly that I wanted to see you, and I didn't send him to you with that message. I wanted him to ask you if you could read the seal engraving on this ring, for it looks like Arabic. He jumped off on his own hook and told me to come along."

There was unbelief in the brown eyes that gazed searchingly into his, but the American's whole attitude betrayed the sincerity behind his words. Slowly the girl relaxed in her chair, and held out her hand.

"Let me see the ring."

He gave it to her in silence. She bent over it a moment, then rose with lithe grace and took an enlarging glass from an open suitcase near by.

She stood by the light of the open flap, scrutinising it closely, while Hammer's eyes wandered over her slender figure and jerked back quickly to her face, almost guiltily: for Cyrus Hammer was like most highly-strung, clean, hard-living men in that he idealized women in general, and his own women friends in particular.

That, indeed, had contributed largely to his utter demoralization after the disillusion that had come upon him three years before.

"Where did you get this ring, Mr. Hammer?"

He started, for his thoughts had been far away. She returned to her seat, having seemingly lost her fear for a moment, and he told her how the ring had been brought to him an hour before, and how the messenger had straightway departed without a word of explanation. While he spoke her eyes searched his face keenly, and at the end she nodded.

"I suppose your story is true, Mr. Hammer; though it sounds rather odd, I must admit that there is truth in your face. That is exactly what I cannot understand."

"You can't? Why not, please? You must have a pretty bad opinion of people!"

"Well, perhaps I have some reason for it, Mr. Hammer. But—well, no matter. Where is Mr. Solomon? Have you seen him?"

"Not since he left the yacht," and Hammer told what he knew of John Solomon. It occurred to him that this was a chance to heal the breach, and accordingly he dilated upon Dr. Sigurd Krausz as a side-issue, putting in as good a word for the scientist as he could. He did not see that suspicion was darkening in the girl's brown eyes as he proceeded, nor did he note that her hand had closed once more upon the revolver, until she held out the ring and interrupted bluntly.

"That is enough, thank you. This ring, as you probably know, bears the Arabic name of Suleiman, or Solomon. There is no use saying any more in favour of Dr. Krausz, Mr. Hammer. Your story is rather improbable, to say the least."

"Why, what do you mean?" He was once more startled by her sudden change of front, comprehending that she had resumed her hostile attitude. "I wish you would tell me if I can be of any help to you, Miss Helmuth! I put it up to the doctor flat, and he told me to keep out of a family row, but——"

"Now, listen, please," she broke in again, her voice cold—almost desperate, he thought vaguely.

"Your story is not convincing, Mr. Hammer, and I am frankly afraid that you think me a good deal of a simpleton. That ring may have come from John Solomon and it may not, but under the circumstances I prefer to take no chances.

"I never met Mr. Solomon, and I never met you; I am practically helpless here, except for my four mission boys, and while you and the doctor may pull the wool over their eyes, I intend to take care of myself.

"When you can produce Mr. Solomon to vouch for you, then things will be different. Until then, I must decline to have any further communication with you."

Poor Hammer stared at her, wondering which of them was crazy. A moment before she had seemed perfectly amenable to reason, but his references to Krausz seemed to have flicked her on the raw and turned her against him again.

"But, Miss Helmuth, can't you see that I am trying to help you? Good Heavens, girl, I'm not any great friend of the doctor! Things here look pretty badly for me, and I'm only anxious to help you if I can. Why are you helpless here? I can't very well go after Krausz with a shotgun without knowing why!"

"I think you know why, Mr. Hammer, and I don't believe there is any use in discussing the matter further. There is only one man I can trust, and if you have been telling the truth I will be glad to apologize.

"But you are either a great fool or you are very ignorant of conditions, and if you came from Mr. Solomon I do not think you would be in either category.

"I can only conclude that you are, as you yourself admitted, in the pay of Dr. Krausz. If Mr. Solomon comes, as I have prayed he will come then he may be able to vouch for you. If not—well, I shall not give up without a fight, that's all."

She rose in dismissal, but Hammer refused to budge.

"Give up what, Miss Helmuth? I'm sorry you don't believe me, but I don't know what the row is about."

The brown eyes gazed at him steadily, almost contemptuously.

"How did Dr. Krausz know that I had appealed to Mr. Solomon for aid?"

"He didn't, that I know of," retorted the American, losing patience. "What on earth is all this talk about that little fat man, anyway? You say you've never met him, then you say that he's the only man you can trust and to bring him along to vouch for me. If I do, who's going to vouch for him, I'd like to know?"

Her eyes dilated slowly, and Hammer was under the impression that his words had had some effect. He was soon undeceived, however.

"Oh, is he a little fat man with big blue eyes?" and there was amazement in her voice.

"He is," returned Hammer ungraciously. "Also, he's in the employ of Dr. Krausz as supercargo—same as me, if you please. Also, I think he's the biggest liar unhung. I can't quite see the connection between you and him, professor."

"Then—he was the man who came on the Mombasa——" she began as if speaking to herself, stopping abruptly and gazing at Hammer as if he had surprised her into revealing some secret. He paid slight attention to her words, for he was trying to find the clue which so persistently eluded his efforts.

Certainly his own statements were a good deal more lucid than hers, and were not so conflicting by half. Yet she seemed to think that he and Krausz were leagued against her in some way and that the ring was some kind of a trick.

She claimed never to have met Solomon, yet described him and seemed to trust him implicitly! Small wonder that the American groaned to himself in despair.

Sara Helmuth was still standing, however, and now she looked down at him with angry eyes; but Hammer thought that seldom had he seen so magnificent a girl even though her mind might be a trifle unbalanced.

"You seem to be insensible to my invitation to depart, Mr. Hammer," and there was cold rage in her voice; "and since you have been clever enough to worm most of the secret out of me, I'll tell you the rest in order to get rid of you.

"Mr. Solomon came aboard the Mombasa at London, stating that he was a messenger from John Solomon and proving it quite efficiently. Naturally I did not recognize him, but I turned over to him the papers, and received them in duplicate when I reached Mombasa from the hands of Potbelly.

"They must have been cabled out, but in any case Potbelly has shown himself worthy of trust, except in this one instance of your fraudulent ring. That is all I know, and you can take it back to your master and share the knowledge with him. Now will you go?"

Hammer began to see light for the first time since the conversation began. John Solomon's hurried trip aboard the Mombasa was explained, it seemed; also the conflicting statements of Miss Helmuth began to straighten themselves out.

And yet the thing sounded so incredible! John Solomon, a fat little cockney supercargo, in league with this girl he had only seen once——

"I'll go," he said helplessly, "but I'm going to have this thing out with Krausz and see what screw is loose, Miss Helmuth. I still can't understand your connection with that little rat Solomon—but I'll go."

So he went, without a word more from her, back to the other tent, where he filled his pipe and tried to get the affair into more lucid shape within his own mind. The effort was vain, however.

The one thing that stood out above all others was that Potbelly's recognition of the ring had been in vain, that Sara Helmuth had absolutely no confidence in it, and had a very lively suspicion that he and Krausz were attempting to trick her.

But what about? It was no longer a question of this woman being a prig—Hammer saw deeper than that, at least. There was something underlying it all that vitally affected her.

This much he knew: Krausz had sent her certain papers in a black wallet from the hotel in London, and she had given those papers to Solomon five minutes later, doubtless without reading them. Then Solomon had lied to him about the black wallet, and he had done it artistically, too. The American began to consider Solomon seriously.

"I'll bet a dollar I was right about Schlak's murder," he thought suddenly. "John Solomon put that Arab up to testifying as he did, and whether Jenson worked the same game with Baumgardner—say, I'll run a bluff on that big Dutchman!"

As the idea occurred to him he looked up and saw Baumgardner himself approaching the tent, evidently having been sent for something by the scientist.

Hammer laid down his pipe and waited until the other came up to the entrance, when he quickly brought out his revolver and covered the surprised German.

"Sit down, Baumgardner," and he made his voice as cold and menacing as possible. "I've a word to say to you, my man."

Anger flitted over the other's heavy countenance, but Hammer was in no mood to be trifled with and showed it plainly. The boatswain sat down.

"Now bear in mind that you're under my authority, bos'n, and not under that of the doctor. No, shut your head! I've got you to rights, Baumgardner. Thought you were pretty smooth, didn't you, when you pulled off that play aboard the yacht? But I'm on to you, and you go back before the German Consul, you and Jenson, and before the British authorities.

"I'm going to open up the case of Schlak's death with a vengeance, and you'll get about two years breaking stone on the Mombasa roads for perjury, you and Jenson. How does that strike you, my man?"

It struck, plain enough, and struck heavily. Baumgardner, who was a big, black-haired type like the doctor, stared at first in blank amazement, but when Hammer finished, his jaw had dropped and dismay sat in his eyes. The American, at heart terribly doubtful as to the outcome of his bluff, pressed the advantage instantly.

"Now, look here, Baumgardner. You're a good seaman, and I'd sooner put Jenson over the road than you. Besides, Mr. Solomon and his Arab friend are going the same way, so there'll be company, and to spare. Now tell me exactly what Jenson said to you outside the chart-house that night."

Baumgardner, whose heavy wits failed to come up to the scratch, blinked.

"Why, Mr. Hammer," he responded humbly, "he just fixed up the story with me, that was all, and said he'd stand by me. How did you know about it, sir?"

"None of your business," snapped Hammer, unutterably relieved. "So it was a frame-up, eh? And Solomon never had the knife to your knowledge?"

"No, sir. It belonged to Mr. Schlak."

"Good Lord! Is that so?"

"Yes, sir. The sheath was hanging on his wall, but Mr. Jenson said to say nothing about it. The hands didn't know because they'd never been in his cabin and he generally carried another."

"Then we'll land Solomon—but why did he admit having had it?"

The other only stared dully at him, his face pale. The American had almost forgotten about Sara Helmuth in the light of this amazing revelation which his bluff had forced out of a clear sky.

He thought swiftly. Solomon must have admitted having had the knife in order to give better colour to the Arab's testimony, and the cleverness of it appalled Hammer, who had scarcely expected such astuteness from the fat supercargo.

Now, however, he determined to carry out the affair to the limit. He would take Baumgardner and Jenson back to Mombasa, get hold of Solomon and the Arab, which could easily be done, and set the whole group breaking stone with the possible exception of the boatswain, who had been a mere tool in Jenson's hands.

Moreover, the pallid-faced secretary was turning out to be a dangerous character. The American's dislike of him was being well verified, and he would have to keep a good watch on the viperish little black-clad man on the trip to Melindi, where the district commissioner could take him in charge.

But while he was turning the matter over in his mind, Baumgardner, perhaps suspecting that the American had bluffed the truth out of him, was regaining his lost self-control, and now spoke out with startling boldness.

"You'll have to see Dr. Krausz, Mr. Hammer, before taking us back. I'm working for him——"

"You shut your head!" Hammer shoved the revolver back into his pocket, for he much preferred to use his fists, and his face, dangerously alight, shot forward almost into the German's.

"Don't give me any of your lip or I'll show you who you're working for, you pie-faced Dutchman! Now stay where you are while I fetch Jenson, and we'll be off for Melindi in ten minutes. You leave this affair to me and I'll pull you out of it; but start any monkey-work and I'll make it hot for you. Don't forget that."