The policeman confessed that he had no evidence along that line, so the first charge was dismissed.

“But you are charged,” said the magistrate, “with carrying an unregistered rifle, and shooting without a license.”

For answer I produced my certificate of registration and the big game license we had paid for in Mombasa.

“Why didn’t you say so before?” demanded the magistrate.

“I wasn’t asked,” said I.

“Case dismissed!” snapped his honor, and the court began to empty.

“Don’t let it stop there!” urged Will excitedly.  “That Heinie and his boys have all committed perjury; charge them with it!”

I turned to the police officer.

“I charge all those witnesses with perjury!” I said.

“Oh,” he laughed, “you can’t charge natives with that.  If the law against perjury was strictly enforced the jails wouldn’t hold a fiftieth of them!  They don’t understand.”

“But that blackguard with a beard—­that rascal Schillingschen understands!” said I.  “Arrest him!  Charge him with it!”

“That’s for the court to do,” he answered.  “I’ve no authority.”

The magistrate had gone.

“Who is the senior official in this town?” I demanded.

“There he goes,” he answered.  “That man in the white suit with the round white topee is the collector.”

So we three followed the collector to his office, arriving about two minutes after the man himself.  The Goanese clerk had been in the court, and recognized me.  He had not stayed to hear the end.

“Fines should be paid in the court, not here!” he intimated rudely.

We wasted no time with him but walked on through, and the collector greeted us without obvious cordiality.  He did not ask us to sit down.

“My friend here has come to tell you about that man Schillingschen,” said Fred.

“I suppose you mean Professor Schillingschen!”

The collector was a clean-shaven man with a blue jowl that suffered from blunt razors, and a temper rendered raw by native cooking.  But he had photos of feminine relations and a little house in a dreary Midland street on his desk, and was no doubt loyal to the light he saw.  I wished we had Monty with us.  One glimpse of the owner of a title that stands written in the Doomsday Book would have outshone the halo of Schillingschen’s culture.

I rattled off what I had to say, telling the story from th moment I started to follow Hassan from the hotel down to the end, omitting nothing.

“Schillingschen is worse than a spy.  He’s a black-hearted, schemer.  He’s planning to upset British rule in this Protectorate and make it easy for the Germans to usurp!”

“This is nonsense!” the collector interrupted.  “Professor Schillingschen is the honored friend of the British government.  He came to us here with the most influential backing—­letter of introduction from very exalted personages, I assure you!  Professor Schillingschen is one of the most, if not the most, learned ethnologists in the world to-day.  How dare you traduce him!”