“Where’s her next stop?” said I.

“Suez,” Fred answered.

Simultaneously then to all three the thought came too that this interpretation of Monty’s remaining on board was exactly what we wanted.  The more people suspected us of acting independently of him the better.

“Confront us with our accusers!” Fred insisted.

“You are not accused—­at least not legally,” said the collector.  “You are refused rifle and ammunition permits, that is all.”

“On the ground of being ivory hunters?”

“Suspected persons—­not known to the government—­something rather stronger than rumor to your discredit, and nothing known in your favor.”

“What recourse have we?” Fred demanded.

“Well—­what proof can you offer that you are bona fide travelers or intending settlers?  Are you ivory hunters or not?”

“I’ll answer that,” said Fred—­dexterously I thought, “when I’ve seen a copy of the game laws.  We’re law-abiding men.”

The collector handed us a well thumbed copy of the Red Book.

“They’re all in that,” he said.  “I’ll lend it to you, or you can buy one almost anywhere in town.  If you decide after reading that to go farther up country I’m willing to issue provisional game licenses, subject to confirmation after I’ve looked into any evidence you care to submit on your own behalf.  You can have your guns against a cash deposit—­”

“How big?”

“Two hundred rupees for each gun!’

Fred laughed.  The demand was intended to be away over our heads.  The collector bridled.

“But no ammunition,” he went on, “until your claim to respectability has been confirmed.  By the way, the only claim you’ve made to me is for the guns.  You’ve told me nothing about yourselves.”

“Two hundred a gun?” said Fred.  “Counting a pistol or revolver as one?” Three guns apiece—­nine guns—­eighteen hundred rupees’ deposit?”

The collector nodded with a sort of grim pleasure in his own unreasonableness.  Fred drew out our new check book.

“You fellows agreeable?” he asked, and we nodded.

“Here’s a check on the Mombasa Bank for ten thousand, and your government can have as much more again if it wants it,” he said.  “Make me out a receipt please, and write on it what it’s for.”

The collector wrote.  He was confused, for he had to tear up more than one blank.

“I suppose we get interest on the money at the legal local rate?” asked Fred maliciously.

“I’ll inquire about that,” said the collector.

“Excuse me,” said Fred, “but I’m going to give you some advice.  While you’re inquiring, look into the antecedents of Lady Isobel Saffren Waldon!  It’s she who gave out the tip against us.  Her tip’s a bad one.  So is she.”

“She hasn’t applied for guns or a license,” the collector answered tartly.  “It’s people who want to carry firearms—­people able and likely to make trouble whom we keep an eye on.”