“Take that chair,” said the consul, reoiling his cleaning rag.  “No, the other one—­that bamboo thing won’t hold you.  Why, they’re cocoanuts—­green cocoanuts.  The shell of ’em is always a light green before they’re ripe.”

“Much obliged,” said the other man, sitting down carefully.  “I didn’t quite like to tell the folks at home they were olives unless I was sure about it.  My name is Plunkett.  I’m sheriff of Chatham County, Kentucky.  I’ve got extradition papers in my pocket authorizing the arrest of a man on this island.  They’ve been signed by the President of this country, and they’re in correct shape.  The man’s name is Wade Williams.  He’s in the cocoanut raising business.  What he’s wanted for is the murder of his wife two years ago.  Where can I find him?”

The consul squinted an eye and looked through his rifle barrel.

“There’s nobody on the island who calls himself ‘Williams,’” he remarked.

“Didn’t suppose there was,” said Plunkett mildly.  “He’ll do by any other name.”

“Besides myself,” said Bridger, “there are only two Americans on Ratona—­Bob Reeves and Henry Morgan.”

“The man I want sells cocoanuts,” suggested Plunkett.

“You see that cocoanut walk extending up to the point?” said the consul, waving his hand toward the open door.  “That belongs to Bob Reeves.  Henry Morgan owns half the trees to loo’ard on the island.”

“One, month ago,” said the sheriff, “Wade Williams wrote a confidential letter to a man in Chatham county, telling him where he was and how he was getting along.  The letter was lost; and the person that found it gave it away.  They sent me after him, and I’ve got the papers.  I reckon he’s one of your cocoanut men for certain.”

“You’ve got his picture, of course,” said Bridger.  “It might be Reeves or Morgan, but I’d hate to think it.  They’re both as fine fellows as you’d meet in an all-day auto ride.”

“No,” doubtfully answered Plunkett; “there wasn’t any picture of Williams to be had.  And I never saw him myself.  I’ve been sheriff only a year.  But I’ve got a pretty accurate description of him.  About 5 feet 11; dark-hair and eyes; nose inclined to be Roman; heavy about the shoulders; strong, white teeth, with none missing; laughs a good deal, talkative; drinks considerably but never to intoxication; looks you square in the eye when talking; age thirty-five.  Which one of your men does that description fit?”

The consul grinned broadly.

“I’ll tell you what you do,” he said, laying down his rifle and slipping on his dingy black alpaca coat.  “You come along, Mr. Plunkett, and I’ll take you up to see the boys.  If you can tell which one of ’em your description fits better than it does the other you have the advantage of me.”

Bridger conducted the sheriff out and along the hard beach close to which the tiny houses of the village were distributed.  Immediately back of the town rose sudden, small, thickly wooded hills.  Up one of these, by means of steps cut in the hard clay, the consul led Plunkett.  On the very verge of an eminence was perched a two-room wooden cottage with a thatched roof.  A Carib woman was washing clothes outside.  The consul ushered the sheriff to the door of the room that overlooked the harbour.