"No."
"Then you don't know that he is dead. You say they have taken your
cattle; how many?"
"A hundred and fifty head."
"Did they threaten to kill you?"
"No."
"Did you do anything to prevent the Barushu from taking your cattle?"
"How could I? I wasn't there."
"Who was in charge of the cattle?"
"My partner, Jones."
"One more question: who told you that the Barushu had beaten the
police?"
"A native."
"Did he also tell you that the Barushu had risen?"
"Yes."
"And that your partner had been killed and your cattle taken away?"
"Well, not exactly; but----"
"You're a silly scaremonger, spreading a yarn like this, and a cur to
boot for deserting your partner! Get out of my camp; get out quickly; go
South, go anywhere. I don't care where you go so long as you do go!"
The man expostulated and threatened to report to Headquarters Wrenshaw's
unmannered treatment of him. As the Commissioner took no more notice of
him, he went off.
But Wrenshaw was scanning the road which led towards the seat of the
alleged trouble. Presently he stepped back into his tent, picked up his
field-glasses and, returning, focussed them on a distant point of the
road.
What he saw perturbed him; he returned the glasses to his case and
walked impatiently up and down before his tent. A runner was
approaching, a Government messenger, he could tell that by his uniform.
In his hand he bore a split reed with a letter slipped in it. His long
Arab shirt was gathered up and tucked into his belt to give greater
freedom in running.
The messenger came along at that steady jog trot which enables the
native to cover such surprising distances in Africa. On nearing Wrenshaw
he dropped into a walk, approached the white man, saluted and handed him
the letter.
The envelope was addressed to the Commandant of the Police Force at
Headquarters. Without hesitation the Commissioner tore it open and read
as follows:
C.A.R. POLICE, MORA STATION.
"MONDAY, 26th JUNE, 19--.