“Tink o’ wot?” asked the mucker.  “Wot’s eatin’ yeh?”

“See those three men down there in the village, Byrne?” asked the Frenchman.  “They’re no more aboriginal headhunters than I am—­they’re Japs, man.  There must be something wrong with our trailing, for it’s as certain as fate itself that Japs are not head-hunters.”

“There ain’t been nothin’ fony about our trailin’, bo,” insisted Byrne, “an’ whether Japs are bean collectors or not here’s where de ginks dat copped de doll hiked fer, an if dey ain’t dere now it’s because dey went t’rough an’ out de odder side, see.”

“Hush, Byrne,” whispered Theriere.  “Drop down behind this bush.  Someone is coming along this other trail to the right of us,” and as he spoke he dragged the mucker down beside him.

For a moment they crouched, breathless and expectant, and then the slim figure of an almost nude boy emerged from the foliage close beside and entered the trail toward the village.  Upon his head he bore a bundle of firewood.

When he was directly opposite the watchers Theriere sprang suddenly upon him, clapping a silencing hand over the boy’s mouth.  In Japanese he whispered a command for silence.

“We shall not harm you if you keep still,” he said, “and answer our questions truthfully.  What village is that?”

“It is the chief city of Oda Yorimoto, Lord of Yoka,” replied the youth.  “I am Oda Iseka, his son.”

“And the large hut in the center of the village street is the palace of Oda Yorimoto?” guessed Theriere shrewdly.

“It is.”

The Frenchman was not unversed in the ways of orientals, and he guessed also that if the white girl were still alive in the village she would be in no other hut than that of the most powerful chief; but he wished to verify his deductions if possible.  He knew that a direct question as to the whereabouts of the girl would call forth either a clever oriental evasion or an equally clever oriental lie.

“Does Oda Yorimoto intend slaying the white woman that was brought to his house last night?” asked Theriere.

“How should the son know the intentions of his father?” replied the boy.

“Is she still alive?” continued Theriere.

“How should I know, who was asleep when she was brought, and only heard the womenfolk this morning whispering that Oda Yorimoto had brought home a new woman the night before.”

“Could you not see her with your own eyes?” asked Theriere.

“My eyes cannot pass through the door of the little room behind, in which they still were when I left to gather firewood a half hour since,” retorted the youth.

“Wot’s de Chink sayin’?” asked Billy Byrne, impatient of the conversation, no word of which was intelligible to him.

“He says, in substance,” replied Theriere, with a grin, “that Miss Harding is still alive, and in the back room of that largest hut in the center of the village street; but,” and his face clouded, “Oda Yorimoto, the chief of the tribe, is with her.”