“Does he call himself by his own name?” Dominey asked.

“He does not,” Miller admitted.  “My cousin, however, desired me to point out to you the fact that in any case he would probably be shy of doing so.  He is behaving in an absurd manner; he is in a very weakly state; and without a doubt he is to some degree insane.  Nevertheless, the fact remains that he is in the Colony, or was three months ago, and that if he succeeds in reaching the coast you may at any time be surprised by a visit from him here.  I am sent to warn you in order that you may take whatever steps may be necessary and not be placed at a disadvantage if he should appear.”

“This is queer news you have brought us, Miller,” Seaman said thoughtfully.

“It is news which greatly disturbed Doctor Schmidt,” the man replied.  “He has had the natives up one after another for cross-examination.  Nothing can shake their story.”

“If we believed it,” Seaman continued, “this other European, if he had business in this direction, might walk in here at any moment.”

“It was to warn you of that possibility that I am here.”

“How much do you know personally,” Seaman asked, “of the existent circumstances?”

The man shook his head vaguely.

“I know nothing,” he admitted.  “I went out to East Africa some years ago, and I have been a trader in Mozambique in a small way.  I supplied outfits for officers and hospitals and sportsmen.  Now and then I have to return to Europe to buy fresh stock.  Doctor Schmidt knew that, and he came to see me just before I sailed.  He first thought of writing a very long letter.  Afterwards he changed his mind.  He wrote only these few lines I brought, but he told me those other things.”

“You have remembered all that he told you?” Dominey asked.

“I can think of nothing else,” was the reply, after a moment’s pause.  “The whole affair has been a great worry to Doctor Schmidt.  There are things connected with it which he has never understood, things connected with it which he has always found mysterious.”

“Hence your presence here, Johann Wolff?” Seaman asked, in an altered tone.

The visitor’s expression remained unchanged except for the faint surprise which shone out of his blue eyes.

“Johann Wolff,” he repeated.  “That is not my name.  I am Ludwig Miller, and I know nothing of this matter beyond what I have told you.  I am just a messenger.”

“Once in Vienna and twice in Cracow, my friend, we have met,” Seaman reminded him softly but very insistently.

The other shook his head gently.  “A mistake.  I have been in Vienna once many years ago, but Cracow never.”

“You have no idea with whom you are talking?”

“Herr Seaman was the name, I understood.”

“It is a very good name,” Seaman scoffed.  “Look here and think.”

He undid his coat and waistcoat and displayed a plain vest of chamois leather.  Attached to the left-hand side of it was a bronze decoration, with lettering and a number.  Miller stared at it blankly and shook his head.