the half light cast by the flame
had illuminated only a portion of the hut, and he imagined that the
prisoner had gone. Then he caught sight of his figure in the corner,
and heaved a sigh of relief.

"Safe!" he exclaimed, with a growl of satisfaction. "Not escaped. That
is good. Have we disturbed your sleep?"

Dick looked up wearily, blinking at the light, and then seeing who it
was, and pretending that he had only just discovered the presence of his
enemy, he rolled over again, treating him with scorn and silence, as was
his custom.

For a little while the half-caste and his attendant stared at him
thoughtfully, then they turned and left the hut.

"I felt ill at ease," Dick heard James Langdon mutter; "I fancied that
he had escaped, and I came to see for myself. I can sleep peacefully
now if I do not dream of these British."

He clenched his hands again as he moved away, and Dick heard him
muttering still as the door was slammed. Then came the sound of his
steps, a fierce kick as he pushed open the door of his own abode, and a
sharp crash as he swung it to again.

"Sick and weary," thought Dick. "His conscience is hurting him, or
rather, perhaps, he begins to feel the net closing round him. We shall
see. I gave him due warning, and if the time comes I will kill him as
if he were a fly. Now for business."

He rose stealthily to his feet and went to the door, where he remained
for some minutes staring out into the street, and taking note of the
position of his guards. Then he went in succession to some half-dozen
tiny peep-holes, which he had diligently bored through the wattle wall
of the hut.

"All clear," he said, with a satisfied chuckle. "It's quite dark now,
and as these people go to bed early the place will soon be quiet. I'll
give the guards a little time to settle down and then I'll move. This
is the side for operations."

He went to the wall which faced the hut in which dwelt the half-caste
and set to work upon it. Slipping his hand into his sleeve, he produced
an angular piece of iron, a fragment of a cooking-pot which he had
picked up in a corner of the hut. Many an hour had he spent in
sharpening an edge of the fragment upon a stone dug up from the dried
mud floor, and now it was as keen as a razor. Holding it firmly in his
hand, he swept it slowly and in a circle over the wattle wall, his
fingers following the cut. Then he repeated the process, very slowly
and very carefully,