lantern open.  He set the match to the wick of the candle and closed the door fast.  The witch doctor drew back.  Walker lifted the lantern and threw the light on his face.  The witch doctor buried his face in his hands and supported his elbows on his knees.  Immediately Walker darted forward a hand, seized the loose sleeve of the witch doctor’s coat and slipped it back along his arm to the elbow.  It was the sleeve of the right arm and there on the fleshy part of the forearm was the scar of a bullet.

“Yes,” said Walker.  “By God, it is Dick Hatteras!”

“Well?” cried Hatteras, taking his hands from his face.  “What the devil made you turn-turn ‘Tommy Atkins’ on the banjo?  Damn you!”

“Dick, I saw you this afternoon.”

“I know, I know.  Why on earth didn’t you kill me that night in your compound?”

“I mean to make up for that mistake to-night!”

Walker took his rifle on to his knees.  Hatteras saw the movement, leaned forward quickly, snatched up the rifle, snatched up the cartridges, thrust a couple of cartridges into the breech, and handed the loaded rifle back to his old friend.

“That’s right,” he said.  “I remember.  There are some cases neither God’s law nor man’s law has quite made provision for.”  And then he stopped, with his finger on his lip.  “Listen!” he said.

From the depths of the forest there came faintly, very sweetly the sound of church-bells ringing—­a peal of bells ringing at midnight in the heart of West Africa.  Walker was startled.  The sound seemed fairy work, so faint, so sweet was it.

“It’s no fancy, Jim,” said Hatteras, “I hear them every night and at matins and at vespers.  There was a Jesuit monastery here two hundred years ago.  The bells remain and some of the clothes.”  He touched his coat as he spoke.  “The Fans still ring the bells from habit.  Just think of it!  Every morning, every evening, every midnight, I hear those bells.  They talk to me of little churches perched on hillsides in the old country, of hawthorn lanes, and women—­English women, English girls, thousands of miles away—­going along them to church.  God help me!  Jim, have you got an English pipe?”

“Yes; an English briarwood and some bird’s-eye.”

Walker handed Hatteras his briarwood and his pouch of tobacco.  Hatteras filled the pipe, lit it at the lantern, and sucked at it avidly for a moment.  Then he gave a sigh and drew in the tobacco more slowly, and yet more slowly.

“My wife?” he asked at last, in a low voice.

“She is in England.  She thinks you dead.”

Hatteras nodded.

“There’s a jar of Scotch whiskey in the locker behind you,” said Walker.  Hatteras turned round, lifted out the jar and a couple of tin cups.  He poured whiskey into each and handed one to Walker.

“No thanks,” said Walker.  “I don’t think I will.”