In Bathhurst, the deputy Governor awaited news of Sir George Barclay.
More than a month had passed since he had left the town, and during
most of the time letters had come through regularly to official
headquarters. The deputy knew that the furthermost point of the tour
must now be about reached; but nearly a week had passed without any
communication, official or otherwise, coming from the party. The fact
was not alarming; the part Sir George must now be in was the wildest in
the colony, and a week might easily pass without any message coming
through.
But when another day or so passed without bringing any news, the deputy
began to wonder what had happened.
"The letters must have gone astray," one of the officers remarked.
"Or some leopard has gobbled up the postman," another suggested.
For a couple of days longer the deputy and military officers waited,
hourly expecting some message from the Governor's party, but none came.
There was no reason to think that harm had befallen them, for the
colony was in perfect order.
Then they sent up for news to the next town of any importance, only to
hear that nothing had been heard there either.
The answer astounded them.
An expedition was sent off post-haste to find out what had happened to
the party.
They were nearly a fortnight in reaching the old fort, the last spot
where any message had come from. And there they found the British flag
still flying over the official headquarters, but both the bungalow and
the fortress were deserted. In the old guardroom and the compound were
a few gnawed human bones; but there was no other trace of the missing
expedition, although there was every sign that disaster had overtaken
it.
The officials were aghast. Sir George and his staff had completely
disappeared. That there had been fighting was evident. The bones in
the guardroom and compound told them that much, but all trace of their
identity had been gnawed off by prowling hyenas.
The country around was scoured, but it brought no clue. The French
Government was communicated with, but it could throw no light on the
affair.
When the news reached England it caused a sensation, for Society culled
that Sir George Barclay's daughter, the lovely twenty-year-old heiress,
Pansy Langham, was among those missing--dead now, or perhaps worse; the
chattel of one of the wild marauders who had fallen so swiftly and
silently upon her father's party.
And in a pleasant English country house Miss Grainger wept for the
bright, brave girl who had always been such a generous friend and
considerate mistress.