Schillingschen blundered into the trap like a buffalo in strange surroundings.

“Ja wohl!” he answered.  “Give me that, and yon shall never see me again!”

At that Fred threw himself full length on his blanket and took one of Schillingschen’s cigars.

“Of course,” he said, “you would give anything for leave to take those words back!  You needn’t try to hide the wince—­we fully appreciate the situation!  What do you say, you fellows?  How about last night’s idea?  Who mooted it?  Shall we send him back by canoe to German East, with a guarantee that if he doesn’t go we’ll hand over diary and him to our government?”

“Better send the book to the commissioner at Nairobi, or Mombasa, or wherever he is,” suggested Will.  “Then if the ‘prof’ here doesn’t get a swift move on he’s liable to be overtaken by the cops, I should say.”

“Let’s make no promises,” said I.  “I vote we simply give him time to get away.”

At that the Germain saw the weak side of our case in a flash.

“If you dared give that diary to your government,” be growled, “you would do so without bargaining with me!  Why do you propose to let me go?  Out of love for me?  No!  But because you dare not appeal to your government!  Give me that diary, and I will go at once to German East, not otherwise!  It is only a diary,” he added.  “Nothing important—­merely my private jottings and memoranda.”

Fred turned toward me so that Schillingschen could not see his face.

“Are you willing to start for Kisumu at once with that book?” he asked, and I nodded.  He winked at me so violently that I could not trust myself to answer aloud and keep a straight face.

“Very well,"’ he said.  “Suppose you start with it to-morrow morning.  At the end of a week well turn the professor home to follow his own nose!”

Schillingschen shrugged his shoulders and refused to be drawn into further argument.  We gave him a good meal from his own provisions, and then once more made his hands fast with wire behind him and left him to sleep off his rage if he cared to in a corner of the tent.

Later that morning we sent for the Baganda—­gave him a view of Schillingschen trussed and helpless—­and questioned him about the man he boasted he knew, who could tell us what Schillingschen was after.  He was so full of fear by that time that he held back nothing.

He assured us the German was after buried ivory.  There was a man, who had promised to meet Schillingschen, who knew where to find the ivory and would lead the way to it.  He did not know names or places—­knew only that the man would be found waiting at a certain place, and was not white.

“How did you get that information?” Fred demanded.

“By listening.”

“When?  Where?”