lp.

"H. Gold--something. Box--something. Jo--hannesburg," was how he
pieced this scanty clue together. "Well, Johannesburg is all `gold,' or
it's supposed to be," and he grinned to himself at this lame joke. "But
I wonder what's the other half of the name--Goldstein or Goldschmidt, or
Goldberg or Gold--what? Then, again, there must be tens of thousands of
P.O. boxes there too, and it's clearly one of these. But how the deuce
one is to trace any of the thousands of children of Israel whose names
begin with `Gold' is another side of the joke."

He carefully copied the fragment into his notebook, imitating as nearly
as possible, and that was very nearly indeed, the character of the
writing. Then he looked around in search of further fragments. There
were none.

Dickinson got a couple of sticks, for he could not touch the loathly
thing, and having first lighted his pipe, managed to get the head into a
possible position for photographic purposes. Then he sat down--at a
respectable distance--and began to study the features.

"One of the children of Israel, if ever there was one, and no mistake
about it," he decided. "Ugh, I've looked at the ugly thing long
enough."

Another pipe was filled and lighted. He felt hungry, and the stuff he
had brought with him for lunch was in his holster on the other side. He
did not care to swim the river alone, with no one to help scare
potential crocodiles. He felt thirsty too, but he would have to feel a
great deal more so before letting himself drink from the water that had
held that dreadful thing facing him. He cut some boughs and placed them
over it to keep off the flies, then returned to his seat in the
demi-shade of a thorn-tree, and proceeded to elaborate theories with all
his might--not that there was much to go upon as yet.

He stood a good chance for the next Sub-Inspectorship which should fall
vacant; could he but work up this case successfully it would be the
making of him. There was a girl over in Natal whom he wanted to marry,
and to whom he was more than half engaged; but they had agreed to wait
for the Sub-Inspectorship. It was hot, very hot. Would his comrade
never come back? The hours wore on. The ripple and murmur of the river
was soothing. Dickinson felt drowsy. Presently he slid more and more
from his sitting posture and slept, and dreamed of the girl over in
Natal.

He slept on and on, now hard and dreamlessly. But by that time Sergeant
Di