“Dick,” he said, “this house of mine stands between your house and the forest.  It stands on the borders of the trees, on the edge of the swamp.  Is that why you always prefer it to your own?”

Hatteras turned his head quickly towards his companion, almost suspiciously.  Then he looked back into the darkness, and after a little he said:—­

“It’s not only the things you care about, old man, which tug at you, it’s the things you hate as well.  I hate this country.  I hate these miles and miles of mangroves, and yet I am fascinated.  I can’t get the forest and the undergrowth out of my mind.  I dream of them at nights.  I dream that I am sinking into that black oily batter of mud.  Listen,” and he suddenly broke off with his head stretched forwards.  “Doesn’t it sound wicked?”

“But all this talk about London?” cried Walker.

“Oh, don’t you understand?” interrupted Hatteras roughly.  Then he changed his tone and gave his reason.  “One has to struggle against a fascination of that sort.  It’s devil’s work.  So for all I am worth I talk about London.”

“Look here, Dick,” said Walker.  “You had better get leave and go back to the old country for a spell.”

“A very solid piece of advice,” said Hatteras, and he went home to the Residency.

II.

The next morning he had again disappeared.  But Walker discovered upon his table a couple of new volumes.  He glanced at the titles.  They were Burton’s account of his pilgrimage to al-Madinah and Mecca.

Five nights afterwards Walker was smoking a pipe on the verandah when he fancied that he heard a rubbing, scuffling sound as if some one very cautiously was climbing over the fence of his compound.  The moon was low in the sky and dipping down toward the forest; indeed the rim of it touched the tree-tops so that while a full half of the enclosure was bare to the yellow light that half which bordered on the forest was inky black in shadow; and it was from the furthest corner of this second half that the sound came.  Walker bent forward listening.  He heard the sound again, and a moment after another sound, which left him in no doubt.  For in that dark corner he knew that a number of palisades for repairing the fence were piled and the second sound which he heard was a rattle as some one stumbled against them.  Walker went inside and fetched a rifle.

When he came back he saw a negro creeping across the bright open space towards the Residency.  Walker hailed to him to stop.  Instead the negro ran.  He ran towards the wicket gate in the palisades.  Walker shouted again; the figure only ran the faster.  He had covered half the distance before Walker fired.  He clutched his right forearm with his left hand, but he did not stop.  Walker fired again, this time at his legs, and the man dropped to the ground.  Walker heard his servants stirring as he ran down the steps.  He crossed quickly to the negro and the negro spoke to him, but in English, and with the voice of Hatteras.