“Including the Pongo,” I said.  “By the way, if I can get the money together for a trip up there, I suppose you mean to come too, don’t you?  If not, the thing’s off so far as I am concerned.  You see, I am reckoning on you to get us through the Mazitu and into Pongo-land by the help of your friends.”

“Certainly I mean to come.  In fact, if you don’t go, I shall start alone.  I intend to explore Pongo-land even if I never come out of it again.”

Once more I looked at him as I answered: 

“You are ready to risk a great deal for a flower, John.  Or are you looking for more than a flower?  If so, I hope you will tell me the truth.”

This I said as I was aware that Brother John had a foolish objection to uttering, or even acting lies.

“Well, Allan, as you put it like that, the truth is that I heard something more about the Pongo than I told you up country.  It was after I had operated on that Kalubi, or I would have tried to get in alone.  But this I could not do then as I have said.”

“And what did you hear?”

“I heard that they had a white goddess as well as a white god.”

“Well, what of it?  A female gorilla, I suppose.”

“Nothing, except that goddesses have always interested me.  Good night.”

“You are an odd old fish,” I remarked after him, “and what is more you have got something up your sleeve.  Well, I’ll have it down one day.  Meanwhile, I wonder whether the whole thing is a lie, no; not a lie, an hallucination.  It can’t be—­because of that orchid.  No one can explain away the orchid.  A queer people, these Pongo, with their white god and goddess and their Holy Flower.  But after all Africa is a land of queer people, and of queer gods too.”

And now the story shifts away to England. (Don’t be afraid, my adventurous reader, if ever I have one, it is coming back to Africa again in a very few pages.)

Mr. Charles Scroope and I left Durban a day or two after my last conversation with Brother John.  At Cape Town we caught the mail, a wretched little boat you would think it now, which after a long and wearisome journey at length landed us safe at Plymouth.  Our companions on that voyage were very dull.  I have forgotten most of them, but one lady I do remember.  I imagine that she must have commenced life as a barmaid, for she had the orthodox tow hair and blowsy appearance.  At any rate, she was the wife of a wine-merchant who had made a fortune at the Cape.  Unhappily, however, she had contracted too great a liking for her husband’s wares, and after dinner was apt to become talkative.  For some reason or other she took a particular aversion to me.  Oh!  I can see her now, seated in that saloon with the oil lamp swinging over her head (she always chose the position under the oil lamp because it showed off her diamonds).  And I can hear her too.  “Don’t bring any of your elephant-hunting manners here, Mr. Allan” (with an emphasis on the Allan) “Quatermain, they are not fit for polite society.  You should go and brush your hair, Mr. Quatermain.” (I may explain that my hair sticks up naturally.)