“How old are you?”—­“How much pay do you get?”—­“How long have you held your job?”—­“Do you ever get drunk?”—­“Are you married?”—­“Does your wife love you?”—­“Do you keep white mice?”—­“Is your life insured?”—­“How often have you been in jail?”—­“Are you honest?”—­“Are you vaccinated against the jim-jams?”—­“Why is your name Fernandez and not Braganza?”

The man was about distracted, for he had been unwise enough to try to answer, when suddenly the collector came in great haste and stalked through the office into the inner room.

“Fernandez!” he called as he passed, and the Goanese hurried after him, hugely relieved.  There was five minute’s consultation behind the partition in tones too low for us to catch more than a word or two, and then Fernandez came out again with a “Now wait and see, my hearties!” smile on his face.  He was actually rubbing his palms together, sure of a swift revenge.

“He says you are to go in there,” he announced.

So we filed in, Fred Oakes first, and it seemed to me the moment I saw the collector’s face that the outlook was not so depressing.  He looked neither young nor incompetent.  His jaw was neither receding nor too prominent.  His neck sat on his shoulders with the air of full responsibility, unsought but not refused.  And his eyes looked straight into those of each of us in turn with a frank challenge no honest fellow could resent.

“Take seats, won’t you,” he said.  “Your names, please?”

We told him, and he wrote them down.

“My clerk tells me you tried to bribe the askari.  You shouldn’t do that.  We are at great pains to keep the police dependable.  It’s too bad to put temptation in their way.”

Will, with cold precision, told him the exact facts.  He listened to the end, and then laughed.

“One more Goanese mistake!” he said.  “We have to employ them.  They mean well.  The country has no money to spend on European office assistants.  Well—­what can I do for you?”

At that Fred cut loose.

“We want our guns before dark!” he said.  “It’s the first time my character has been questioned by any government, and I say the same for my friends!”

“Oh?” said the collector, eying us strangely.

“Yes!” said Fred.

“That is so,” said I.

“Entirely so,” said Will.

“I have information,” said the collector, tapping with a pencil on his blotter, “that you men are ivory hunters.  That you left Portuguese territory because the German consul there had to request the Portuguese government to expel you.”

“All easily disproved,” said Fred.  “Confront us, please, with our accusers.”

“And that Lord Montdidier, with whom you have been traveling, became so disgusted with your conduct that he refused to land with you at this port as he at first intended!”

We all three gasped.  The first thing that occurred to me, and I suppose to all of us, was to send for Monty.  His steamer was not supposed to sail for an hour yet.  But the thought had hardly flashed in mind when we heard the roar of steam and clanking as the anchor chain came home.  The sound traveled over water and across roofs like the knell of good luck—­the clanking of the fetters of ill fate.