The Flaming Skull
By Hugh B. Cave
Originally published in the November, 1931 issue of Popular Fiction Magazine

A story of perilous adventure amongst the head-hunting tribes of Borneo.

CHAPTER ONE

FOR THE first hour of the journey from Lunda to Kuching, along the Sarawak coast, Carey Black pressed back in the rear seat of the government car and hunched into himself, with his rangy, putteed legs doubled up in front of him. It was November, Borneo's unwelcome rainy season, and the air that whined over the top of the wind-shield was chill and wet, creeping under a man's linen coat and pith helmet with a decidedly shivery touch.
The road was monotonous. Black had been over it more than a score of times in the past six months. His job as government engineer in Lunda, surveying the coastal jungles and laying out prospective roads for future development, had called for frequent trips to Kuching, to Foreign Service headquarters. He knew every twist of the route, every sullen curve. For instance, there would be an imitation cliff most of the way, squatting on the right side, and a rather formidable, sickening drop into the South China Sea on the left; then the Cape Po light off in the distance, and the yellow murk of Kuching's native quarter—and finally the government residency in Kuching proper, where Captain Guy Molert would be waiting.

CASUALLY, Black glanced at the wide, angular shoulders of the man at the wheel. There was a man for you! A Sikh and all that—with a Sikh's inseparable top-heavy turban and long haired drink strainer, and a name that sounded like cold water dropping on hot coals—but a man who didn't know the definition of nerves. A man you could bank on. Even now, a sudden boulder in the road or a patch of unexpected mud under the wheels would be enough to wrench the steering-rim out of his hands and snap the car over the edge; but Sanuk Singh sat there propped up like a king robot, dignified, unemotional, unperturbed.
"Pretty rotten going, eh?" Black proffered.
Sanuk Singh glanced up into the windshield mirror without turning his head. He smiled quietly and said: "Yes, sahib. We'll be there soon. We won't be late."
That reminded Black of something else. He groped in his coat pocket and fetched out an envelope with the end torn off. Fishing out its contents, he spread the letter in his hands. He knew it by rote now; he'd gone over it so many times. But it was so damned peculiar, so damned unlike Molert to be mysterious about anything. Molert was generally a straight-forward, open-handed Britisher. Black had known him for years. Met him some time ago in the States. It was Molert who had suggested to the government that Black was the man for the engineering job at Lunda. Molert who had actually summoned Black to Borneo. Now this thing—this inexplicable note which Molert had sent from Kuching.

"Come to Kuching at once and say nothing to anyone. I have unearthed the greatest secret of Borneo's interior."

Black frowned at it. It sounded like a lot of poppycock, this reference to the "greatest secret of Borneo's interior." Borneo's interior didn't possess any secrets—not for Black. It was an infernal maze of stinking jungle and fever rivers. Snakes and natives and leeches and—
Black folded the paper and put it away with a shrug. The car was nearing the end of its run, droning at slow speed through the filthy, twisting street-alleys of Kuching's native quarter. Black stuck a cigarette in his lips and lighted it, to keep out the stink of sewage. By the time the fag had burned out, the waterfront shacks were a mile behind and the car was pulling to a stop before the government residence, in the European quarter. Black climbed out and tossed his cigarette into the gutter.
"Better come in, Sanuk," he sail "I'll probably be a long time."
The Sikh followed Black up the steps. He was taller than Black, and heavier. His turban gave him preposterous height, yet he stood serenely erect without stooping. He was proud of his heritage.
Black pulled the bell, and waited. A Dyak soldier admitted him. Sanuk Singh paced over the threshold behind him.
"Tell Captain Molert that Carey Black is here," Black said quietly.
The Dyak retreated along the corridor. Black leaned against the wall, just inside the door. In a moment he straightened up again stiffly. Another door had opened at the end of the passage and a figure was coming along the carpet toward him. A girl's figure.
Black watched her. He tried hard not to stare, but she was young—not more than twenty, he guessed—and sort of out of place here. Good looking girls were rather scarce in Kuching and scarcer than that in Lunda. He hadn't seen one in months. And this one—well, she was good looking right enough! But her face was pale, white, and her eyes were rimmed with shadow.
She stopped in front of him.
"You—wish to see Captain Molert?"
"Yes. He sent for me," Black said.
The girl hesitated. Obviously she was not quite certain what to say next.
"You are—is it a matter of business, please?"
"Don't know exactly what it is," Black smiled."Captain Molert sent me a letter of sorts, tellingly to come in a hurry, and—"
"Who are you?"
"The name is Black. Carey is the other end of it."
"Oh!" The exclamation came quickly, sharply, from the girl's lips. She reached out slowly and touched Black's arm."You're father's best friend, then. He's told me about you."
Black gaped at her. He knew Molert had a daughter, but he'd never had the luck to meet her. So this was the girl Molert was eternally raving about!
"Please come," she interrupted."I've something to tell you. You'll help me, I know."
She turned heavily. Black walked behind her as she went down the corridor. Sanuk Singh, the Sikh, stood stolidly by the outer door, watching them as they went into the room at the other end.
Inside the room, the girl stiffened her shoulders and faced Black deliberately.
"I'm Jeanne Molert—Captain Molert's daughter," she said simply."There is no use beating about the bush, Mr. Black. My father is dead."
"He's—" Black was going to say: "He's whaf?" but she interrupted him again in an even, controlled voice.
"He has been murdered."

BLACK stood and looked at her. He thought of Molert—big, broad-faced Guy Molert, who always talked in a guttural voice that seemed to scrape all the way up from his army boots. Molert—who had a dozen homely, human habits; smoked too much, swore good-humoredly when anything puzzled him, always scribbled on the back of an old letter or something when he was talking at his desk. Molert—good Lord, he couldn't be dead! Every living thing was half in love with him!
And the note—the note Molert had sent only a little more than two hours ago. He'd been alive then, surely. The note was in his handwriting. No mistake about that—
"When did it happen?" Black said huskily."Two hours ago," Jeanne replied."Two hours—may I see him, please?" "Are you sure you—" "Yes, please."
Jeanne stepped across the room and opened the door of the dead man's private office. She did not enter. She stood aside and let Black go in alone.
Black crossed the threshold slowly, still gripped by the unreality of it. Somehow he half expected to find them room in an upheaval—table overturned, chairs thrown about, papers cluttering the floor. Nothing would have surprised him.
But he was wrong. The office was quite in order. There were no signs of conflict, no signs of anything wrong except the quiet form that lay across the table.
He examined it without touching it. No need to turn it over; the death mark was plainly visible. A bullet hole in the back of the head, nothing else. Molert had been sitting with his back toward the single window. The window looked out on the lawn at the rear. The murderer had crept up unseen—a revolver uplifted—and—
Black walked out again and closed the door. The girl was waiting. He lowered himself into the chair opposite her.
"You say he sent for you to come here?" Jeanne said.
Black showed her the note he had brought from Lunda. She read it frowning.
"What does it mean?" she asked him.
"I don't know."
"But why did he want you?"
"Perhaps you can answer that question," Black suggested,"by telling me what you know."
Jeanne hesitated. Then, choosing her words carefully:
"Father returned only a week ago from an inspection tour of the interior jungles. As soon as he returned, I knew that something was preying on his mind, Mr. Black. I haven't been long in Borneo, but I do know my father. He was worried about something; and it was important, because he would confide in no one."
"That isn't like him," Black said quietly.
"The day he returned," she went on, ignoring his comment,"he went down to the native quarter. During the week, he went there again. Today— only an hour before we found him—like that—he made a third trip."
"Do you know why he went?"
"He would not tell me. But when he came in today, he was flushed, excited. I questioned him. He spoke sharply to me—and he seldom does that—and he insisted that he be allowed to go into his office, undisturbed. Father seldom allowed anything to get on his nerves, Mr. Black. I can't understand it "
Black was leaning down in his chair, his elbows on his knees and his face cupped in his long fingers.
"The native quarter," he said slowly—not to her, but to himself."Three times—to the native quarter!"
Then he looked up sharply.
"Is that all?" he demanded.
"Yes. Only three times, so far as I know—"
"I mean is that all you can tell me?"
"Oh. Yes. I think so. Except, of course, that I found him in there, two hours ago the way he is now—"
Black stood up, scowling. He turned away from her almost rudely and strode to the door; but at the door he stopped and said quietly:
"I'll see what I can uncover, Miss Molert. Perhaps down in the native hole—"
Then he went out, leaving her to stare after him. Abruptly he paced down the corridor to the outer door.
Sanuk Singh was standing there, patient and unmoving as the bole of a big tree. With one hand Black seized the Sikh's arm; with the other he pulled the door open.
"We're going for a walk," he said curtly."Think your long legs can stand it?"
"Yes, sahib. Where?"
But Black was already outside, descending the wooden steps. Sanuk Singh, impassive as a shadow, followed him.

THE STREETS of the European quarter were dark now—which meant that the black, ribbony alleys of the native hole would be unquestionably darker. Here, among the white houses and smooth pavements, there were lights overhead. Down there, where wooden hovels crowded against each other like black beetles cringing in the waterfront murk, there would be no lights except the masked, yellow glows that emanated from upper windows. There would be sinister doorways and the mouths of impenetrable black alleys between buildings and litter underfoot—and silent, slow-footed shadows pacing from one sidewalk to the other.
Knowing this, Sanuk Singh said casually: "It would be safer, sahib, to use the car."
"Don't want it," Black grunted."We're going to Kemal Sel's opium dive."
The Sikh's eyes contracted ever so slightly. Unconsciously his right hand slid down and fingered the short-bladed kard in the belt of his knee-breeches. He knew Kemal Sel's place. He had been there as a soldier, before he had become Black's "boy."
"May  the  nine gurus of  Nanak  and  the Punjabi Jats be with us, sahib," he murmured under his breath.
"Eh? What's that?"
"Nothing, sahib. I was saying that it might be a good idea to have your revolver where you can reach it quickly."
Black smiled thinly, but the humor was of short duration. He, too, knew the nature of Kemal Sel's underground hangout. It was the resort of low-caste natives—waterfront Arabs and Singhalese, and occasional Chinese. Sanuk Singh's suggestion about the revolver was not empty talk.
Black paced on, with the Sikh beside him and a little behind. They had left the European quarter behind. The streets had become alleys, unlighted. Occasional stolid-faced natives shambled past without looking up. Once in a while a square of sallow illumination was visible above the sidewalk, gutting through some second story window. But it was mostly silence and thick darkness—and an unpleasant stench that came from the gutters.
Kemal Sel's was in the very center of the labyrinth. A dozen stone steps led down from the sidewalk level, terminating in a closed door. Black groped down, holding the wall for support. With one hand in his pocket, closed over the revolver that lay there, he pushed open the door and shuffled inside. Sanuk Singh, stooping to avoid the low entry, went in behind him.

CHAPTER TWO

THE DOPE den was empty. At least, the outer room was empty. The inner chambers, divided into opium booths and sleeping quarters, were not open to the inspection of white men.
Black walked toward the nearest table. His heavy boots grated over the rough floor. The chair, when he pulled it back, rasped protestingly—and these sounds were magnified to triple proportions by the restless quiet of the room. Black and Sanuk Singh sat down, staring at each other. Then a door behind the counter opened with a soft screech.
Black turned swiftly—and relaxed again. It was the bar-keep who had come in. An emaciated Chinese, wrapped around with a dirty apron. He scuffed forward, leaned on the counter, and said indifferently:
"Drink?"
"Not now," Black said.
The Oriental busied himself behind the counter, slopping about with a wet rag. Black looked around carelessly to inspect the shadowed corners of the room. He stiffened.
The dive wasn't empty. Not quite. One of the tables in the far corner, half masked in shadow, was occupied—occupied by a single, well-dressed native. Black couldn't see the man's face; it was bent down, studying something. But he could distinguish the fellow's garb—the garb of the high-caste Arab. Long knee breeches—longer than Sanuk Singh's and a deep-colored, silken tunic hung over a tall, long-limbed, muscular body.
The Arab was intent over something. Something that lay on the table between his cupped hands and gave out a thousand little winks of light, even in the shadows. Black guessed that it was a diamond, and a good one.
But that wasn't all. The Arab moved slightly. He was holding a piece of white paper in his hand, tipping it up at an angle so that the light over, the bar would shine on it. The paper must be important, Black thought. The Arab's eyes were glued to it.
Black turned quietly around to nudge Sanuk Singh. But the Sikh had seen it too; his deep eyes met Black's and contracted significantly, as if to say:
"There is something peculiar about that Arab, sahib. Men like him—high-caste—do not usually frequent Kemal Sel's."
Black would have swung about again to continue his vigil, had not the street door opened beyond him. Two men came in. Two white men. And as they stepped to the bar and passed directly under the drop light, Black saw their faces in detail.
One was French. No question about it. His hawkish features and cunningly trimmed mustache, his deep color, were as good as a placard. Moreover, he was as much out of place here as the Arab. He was too well dressed.
The other—well, the other was a waterfront rat. A half-caste. A limp brimmed cap was pulled over his eyes. His clothes hung loose.
They leaned on the bar, without speaking. One of them—the Frenchman—turned casually to glance at the Arab in the corner, then turned back again and motioned to the bar-keep. Three heads went together, whispering in an undertone.
Black watched them, frowning. He watched the Arab, too; but the Arab was too busy with his own interests to notice what was going on. At the counter, the bar-keep straightened up, grinning. The Frenchman gave him money. Then the two white men paced quietly along the floor, opened one of the inner doors, and disappeared.
Black was studying the bar-keep now. He saw the Chinaman take a glass and a bottle, and pour the contents of one into the other. Then a smaller bottle from under the counter—and one drop, two drops, slid into the glass. Stirring it with a spoon handle, the Oriental scuffed out from behind the counter and walked to the Arab's table. He put the glass down, grinning. The Arab paid him. The Chinaman shuffled back to his hole.
Black glanced at Sanuk Singh and got up. He walked quietly to the Arab's table. The Arab was intent on the paper again; did not notice him. Even before Black reached the table, the fellow reached out mechanically, without thinking, and took hold of the glass.
"I wouldn't drink that," Black said softly 'It's been fixed."

IT WAS remarkable, the effect of his voice on the man at the table. The Arab's hand snapped back, away from the glass, and scooped up the glittering stone that lay in front of him. The hand slid into his tunic and came out again—empty. Then realizing that the bit of paper was exposed in full view, he tried to conceal that also.
But he was too late. Black was standing directly over it, and had seen enough of it to want to see more. When the Arab's fingers darted out to snatch the paper away, Black's hand locked around the fellow's wrist.
The Arab said nothing. Nothing at all. His oval face was twisted, twitching. His jet eyes bored straight up into Black's defiant, challenging.
"I'll look at the paper, if you don't mind," Black said deliberately.
The answer spit out through white regular teeth."No!"
"If you feel that way—" Black's left hand, holding the man's wrist, began to turn. The Arab's free hand shot back into his tunic. It slid out again, holding a dirk—and then it froze motionless. Black's right hand had been a full second quicker. It held a revolver now, and the muzzle of the gun was on an even, unwavering line with the Arab's mouth.
Reluctantly, the Arab released his hold on the paper.
"Put the knife down," Black ordered softly.
The knife fell.
"Now fetch out the diamond."
The Arab hesitated. Plainly, he was looking for a chance to get past Black's cool revolver. But the chance was not forthcoming.
"Fetch out the diamond!"
With slow fingers the Arab obeyed. The stone came out of his tunic and rolled on the table. Black picked it up, dropped it in his own pocket without looking at it.
Falling back a step, Black glanced over his shoulder and motioned to Sanuk Singh. The Sikh was waiting. He strode forward.
"Take this," Black said curtly, slipping the revolver into his hand,"and keep this fellow here."
"Yes, sahib."
Black walked to the counter, under the light, and examined the square of paper.
The thing was a puzzle, at best. One side— the side which had first attracted Black's attention—was unmistakably written in Captain Guy Molert's hand. But it was a mess of words and figures—unintelligible.
Black studied it. Frowned at it. It meant nothing to him, except perhaps the repetition of the name Krinjalilaya. That had a significance for any man who knew the interior jungles. But the rest—the cryptograms and the half finished word Matam—were just so many pen scratches.
He turned the paper over. The other side was a letter, not in Molert's script but in a strange hand that Black did not recognize. It said briefly:

"The stone is finished, sahib. If you will come for it tonight, you may have it. Matamuri."

So far as Black could make out, their only connection between the two sides of the paper was that single word Matamuri, in an unknown hand on one side, and in Molert's hand, unfinished, on the other. Frowning, Black went back to the Arab's table.
"Where did you get this paper?" he demanded.
The Arab smiled cunningly."I found it."
"Where?"
The Arab would have answered, but something behind Black's rangy body caught his attention. His eyes widened. He stiffened a little.
Black spun around. He was in time to see the door of the inner room click shut. In time to catch a fleeting glimpse of the Frenchman's face; that was all. Automatically he searched the room for the Chinaman. There was no sign of him. Without being told, Black knew what had occurred. The bar-keep, noting the failure of his drugged whiskey, had slipped into the back room to inform the Frenchman and the half-caste. The Frenchman had opened the door silently to make sure.
Black swung around again. He was not concerned with the Frenchman—just now.
"Does the name Matamuri mean anything to you?" he demanded, confronting the Arab."Matamuri? No—nothing."
"He is lying, sahib," Sanuk Singh threw in."Every native in Kuching knows Matamuri's shop. It is a little curio store three streets from here toward the waterfront. And Matamuri is a Singhalese who buys stolen things from thieves."
"You sure?" 
"Sure, sahib."
Black nodded thoughtfully. Then, in a sharp voice:
"Take this man to headquarters, Sanuk. Hold him there until I return."
"Better take this, sahib," the Sikh advised, holding out the revolver.
But Black was already striding to the outer door.

BLACK turned left along the sidewalk when he emerged from Kemal Sel's basement hangout. It was pitch dark now—no street lights, no signs of movement on either side. Must be about ten o'clock, he guessed. Not exactly late; but late enough for the native quarter—the external part of it at least—to hole up for the night. Black wondered, as he walked along in the shadows of overhanging, bulging tenement-shacks if Matamuri's shop would be also shut up.
At the end of the street he followed Sanuk Singh's directions: "three streets from here toward the waterfront." They were not lovely alleys, especially at this time of night. More than once, as he paced along, Black caught himself wondering which of the many lurking doorways would spit a knife out at him.
That was the system down here, with white men who were fools enough to prowl the evil quarter. A black doorway—a sudden rushing shadow—descending knife—then a dead white man lying in the gutter with his pockets stripped and half his clothes purloined. The native police would stumble over him the next morning, and send in a report-Only one more street now, if Sanuk Singh had been correct. Then, if Matamuri had any information to disclose—
It was the sudden scrape of naked feet, coming out of the dark behind him, that cut Black's thoughts into oblivion and brought him around with a lurch. He was too late then. He had no revolver to reach for. All he could do was throw up his arms and lash out against the four gutter rats who fell upon him.
He kept his feet for a while, fighting them with silent fury. Even as they forced him back, he wondered why they hadn't used their infernal knives. But they didn't; they were content to trip him against the wall and drag him down.
He groped to his knees, even as they clawed over him. His clenched fist found more than one fleshy mark and sunk with raking force. But they smothered him, pawed over him—then something solid smashed into his face, across the eyes and he relaxed.
The last thing he heard, before the native faces above him became a blur of darkness, was a voice—with a French accent—saying crisply:
"Take him to Kemal Sel's, to the room on the second floor—"

CHAPTER THREE

WHEN HIS senses struggled back to normal again and he realized the nature of his surroundings, Black was lying on a board floor in the dark, trussed hand and foot. His forehead throbbed with an insistent hammering. His eyes ached. His angular body was wrenched into a contorted position that strained every muscle.
He rolled over, feeling behind him with his manacled hands. His fingers touched a smooth wall. Rolling in the other direction, he struck the legs of a table. Evidently he was in the room they had mentioned—one of the upper rooms in Kemal Sel's hangout. But why had they brought him here? If they had wanted to get rid of him, why hadn't they killed him?
He realized what they had done. The Frenchman and the half-caste had crept out of the saloon as soon as they had overheard the conversation about Matamuri's shop. Knowing the route Black would take, they had waited for him with a handful of native muck-rats. For a while he leaned back against the table-legs, trying to remember various stories he had heard concerning methods of escape. Then he smiled grimly and settled down to work.
It was a long job, twisting that stiff leather belt inch by inch through its loops, until the sharp-edged buckle was within reach of his wrists. And then a longer job, sawing a single strand of rope back and forth across the metal. Long before it was finished Black's arms and wrists were numb.
But it had to be done, and done quickly. No telling when the Frenchman or some of his gutter rats would come back and open the door there. Black shifted position and went through the motions mechanically.
The rope parted. Even then the bonds could not be jerked loose; they were knotted in such a position that a second strand had to be severed. And in the midst of this second task, Black stiffened and froze motionless. Footsteps were scuffing along the corridor outside, approaching the door!
Black groaned. Curse them—why couldn't they have waited another ten minutes! Why did they have to return just as he was half free—
Outside, a voice said quietly:
"Go downstairs, Sel. I'll guard the door here. Geraux will be back any time now."
Other footsteps shuffled away. Black frowned So Kemal Sel, the Chinaman, had been on guard outside the door. Been there all the time! And now the half-caste—if it was the half-caste— was taking the Oriental's place. That would make it harder. A lot harder.
But a plan was already formed in Black's mind. He went to work with renewed vigor, until the second strand of rope parted under his efforts. Half a dozen savage jerks, and his hands were free. He waited a moment, until the blood had begun to circulate; then  he  leaned  over and unbound his legs.
He was on his feet now with the rope held in his hands like a strangling cord. Stepping silently to the door, he took his position a little to one side, where he would be concealed when the barrier opened. Then he reached out with one foot and kicked the panels—kicked them dully as if still bound. And lying prostrate, he had rolled against the door and was struggling to open it.
For a moment nothing responded. Then, outside in the passage, something moved forward. The knob turned slowly. The door opened with a jerk. The half-breed took a single unwary step into the room.
Black was upon him before he could turn. The rope snapped over the fellow's head from behind, burned into his neck, dragged him backwards. His sudden scream was choked before it could reach his lips.
There was no resistance. Even as the man clawed around, groping for a weapon, Black's fist ground into his face and floored him. With swift fingers Black transferred the rope to the fellow's wrists and ankles, and gagged him with a strip of his own filthy trousers. Yes, it was the half-caste. In spite of the dark, Black recognized those repulsive features.
Dragging him into the corner, Black stole quietly from the room and closed the door. When he emerged into the corridor, he held a revolver in his hand. The half-caste's revolver.
But there was no need for it. Ten paces down the passage, Black found a flight of wooden steps. He descended noiselessly to the lower level. There another corridor presented itself, lined on each side with shallow booths. The booths, most of them, were empty. A few of them had occupants; but curtains were drawn across the openings, and the men behind the curtains were too far gone to notice Black as he stepped softly toward the door that led into the outer saloon.
This door opened under his touch. With the revolver ready for service, he stepped into the main hangout.
Kemal Sel was there—but asleep. The Chinaman was sitting on his stool behind the bar, drooped over the counter. He did not awaken as Black tip-toed past him to the street door.
A moment later, for the second time that night, Black groped up the steps to the sidewalk and turned in the direction of Matamuri's curio shop.

THIS time he was not waylaid. He found the place, with its masked windows and decrepit sign hanging above the entrance. Matamuri would be asleep, of course. But—well, he could be aroused. There was no time to waste, and this was no moment to be considering a man's feelings.
Black hammered on the closed door, and waited. While he stood there, he fumbled in his pocket for the diamonds and for the scrap of paper with the peculiar cryptogram. His fingers came out empty. Scowling, he tried another pocket—tried all of them. The stuff had been removed!
Black cursed himself for a fool. Of course the stuff had been lifted! What else had the Frenchman and the half-breed made him a prisoner for, if not to get the diamond and the paper! What else—
The door in front of him jarred open. A troubled Singhalese face, over a hunched body, stared at him critically, waiting for him to speak.
"I want to see Matamuri," Black said evenly.
"What for?"
"Business."
The Singhalese moved back. Black followed him into the shop and leaned on the narrow counter, under the single hanging light.
"What you want?"
"I want information. You knew Captain Molert, didn't you?"
"I know him. Sure."
"Sure," Black nodded."He used to come here?"
"Yes, he come here. He bring work for me. He tell me some day he bring a lot of more work, and pay me good money."
"What kind of work?"
Matamuri's eyes tightened. He peered into Black's face, as if wondering how much it was safe to tell a man who came in the middle of the night to ask questions.
"He brought a diamond here," Black prompted."That right?"
"He bring it here for me to cut."
"So that's it, eh? He brought the unfinished stone and paid you to cut it. When did he bring it?"
"A week ago," Matamuri supplied.
"And then he returned a couple of times to see what sort of a job you were doing. Today you wrote him a note, telling him it was finished."
Matamuri blinked. Evidently this white man did know something; It might be well to stick to the truth and tell him what else he wanted to learn!
"Molert was killed tonight," Black said curtly."Someone murdered him for the stone. Do you know who did it?"
"No, no!" Matamuri stretched out a trembling hand to touch Black's arm."You think I did it! No!"
"I don't think you did it, Johnny. But if you'll do some thinking yourself, you may be able to give me an idea who did. Did anyone else see the diamond?"
Matamuri hesitated fearfully. Then, edging forward, he said quietly:
"Maybe I do know something. Today, when Captain Molert come for the stone, there were two men in the shop. There was a Frenchman, a rich Frenchman named Armand Geraux. Maybe you know him. He buys stones from me sometimes; and he goes about ways with a half-breed white named Rossi who is his shadow. And there was a high-caste Arab whose name is Ali Rek. They were here, both of them, when Captain Molert came. And when Captain Molert took the diamond from my hand, and looked at it, he became excited. He became very excited. He laughed at me; and he talked in a loud voice about the stone. He showed it to each of the other two men, telling them; that it was worth thousands of dollars, and that he knew where he could find millions more like it. The Frenchman and the Arab looked at the stone very closely, as if they wanted it. And they told him he was lucky."
Matamuri turned, pointing to the side of the shop.
"Geraux was standing there," he indicated."Ali Rek, the Arab, was here. And Geraux asked Captain Molert, in a half joking way, where the rest of the diamonds were. I think that made Captain Molert realize he had talked too much, sahib, because he went out without saying anything else. He did talk too much—much too much—but the diamond was a wonderful one, sahib, and I do not blame him."
Black nodded. He asked more questions, but the information he dragged out was merely a repetition of what Matamuri had already disclosed. Geraux and the Arab had been in the shop—that was Matamuri's main theme. Molert had shown them the diamond and done altogether too much talking in his excitement. Matamuri didn't know any more than that.
"Did Molert ever tell you where he found the stone?" Black demanded.
"No. But he tell me he know where there are many, many more."
"That's all he'd say, eh?" "Yes, sahib."
"All right." Black dropped a silver coin on the counter and walked to the front of the shop."Better keep your mouth shut, Johnny," he advised, as he opened the door."You may get into trouble."
The door closed. Outside, Black turned wearily toward the distant European quarter. He was tired, disappointed. He wondered what time it was. And he wished, half-heartedly, that Sanuk Singh were here with the car. It was a long hike, back to headquarters.

THE DARKNESS was beginning to lift by the time Black reached the government residence. Climbing the stairs, he pressed the bell and waited. He expected to find the place asleep.
He was wrong about that. Even before he took his finger off the button, the door was opened. Sanuk Singh stood there.
"I thought you weren't coming, sahib," the Sikh said quietly."Even now I was preparing to go after you."
"Where is Miss Molert?"
"In her room, sahib. She has been waiting."
"Call her, will you."
"Yes, sahib. But first—"
Something in the Sikh's voice caused Black to look sharply into his face. Sanuk Singh stood stolidly erect without flinching.
"What is it?" Black said quietly.
"Sahib, my kes (beard) should be shaved off and I should be made to walk in the street without my kachh (turbin). I allowed the Arab pig to escape."
Black's mouth tightened in a troubled line. He stared at the Sikh for a moment without replying. One thing he was sure of—the man who escaped from Sanuk Singh would have to be possessed with the devil's own ingenuity.
"How did he do it?" Black said finally.
"I was leading him along a dark street, sahib, and he was talking to me like an old-woman, moaning about his fate and crying about the injustice of it. Then suddenly his leg became tangled in my legs and I stumbled. When I stood up again, he was gone. I searched doorways and alleyways. I even searched the buildings near where he vanished but—"
"But you didn't find him, eh?'
Black shrugged." Call Miss Molert, old boy."
"You don't need to," a voice answered behind him."I've been waiting for you."
Black turned quickly; Jeanne Molert was standing there, trying to smile.
"Tell me what you discovered," she said eagerly.
"Well—" Black hesitated. Taking her arm, he led her to the room where they had talked before. Sanuk Singh followed, at a jerk of Black's head.
When they were sitting down expectantly, facing him, Black drew up a chair and lowered himself. He told what he had unearthed. Told about Matamuri's shop and the diamond, and the letter Matamuri had written to the girl's father. Then about Geraux and Rossi, the half-breed, and Ali Rek. And about the queer cryptogram on the back of the letter.
"One of those three men," he finished,"killed Captain Molert. I'm inclined to think the Arab did it, because he was the one who had the paper and stone in his possession. But there's more to it than we think, Miss Molert."
"How Ho you mean?"
"Your father's been doing a lot of talking about some hidden fortune in diamonds that he stumbled on. The two men who waylaid me, and the Arab who escaped from Sanuk Singh here— they're all after the secret of your father's cache."
"And what is the secret?" Jeanne said softly.
"That's a hard question. You say Molert returned only a week ago from the inner jungles. Where did he go?"
"To Fort Maiti," she raids "And to the up-river villages."
"Not much help, you see. Now this scrawl on the back of your father's letter. Well—you know your father's habits as well as I do, I guess; but the thing contained pictures of a lot of diamonds, and it contained the name Krinjalilaya."
Black looked quietly into the two faces before him; waiting for them to grasp the significance of it. The girl frowned a little, bewildered. But the effect on Sanuk Singh was abrupt. He stiffened and stared at Black. His big hands, resting on the arms of the chair, tightened perceptibly. His eyes widened, and his mouth thinned.
"What does it mean?" Jeanne asked.
"Krinjalilaya," Black told her,"is a Dyak village chief. His village is in the heart of the deep jungle country, where white traders and missionaries seldom penetrate. The few traders who have really been there have brought back tales about sun-worship and heathen superstitions—and a mad legend about a 'burning skull' or something."
"A—skull?'
"A skull," Black repeated soberly."It is some sort of horrible fetish the natives indulge in; but no living person seems to know exactly what. At any rate, Krinjalilaya's village  is  the  name  in  the cryptogram."
"And do you think father found diamonds there?"
"I'm not interested in diamonds." Black shrugged."And, as I suggested before, you know Captain Molert's little habits better than I do. This cryptogram was probably nothing more than—"
"Yes, I realize that."
"I do think this," Black said, bending forward thoughtfully."All three of the men we suspect— Geraux, Rossi, and Ali Rek—have seen the paper. They are all bent on finding your father's source of supply. They will come to the only natural conclusion—that Krinjalilaya's village contains the secret."
"You think they'll go there?"
"Sure of it. On their way now, more than likely. Soon as Geraux and Rossi discover I've escaped, they'll light out of Kuching as fast as they can move, before the Foreign Service gets after them. As for Ali Rek—well, he knows he's under suspicion for murder. He won't hang around."
"And you—shall you follow them?" "Yes."
"When?"
"It's a long trip," Black suggested."I can make the first part of it in comparative comfort, if I can get the use of the government launch. The rest of the way will be a bit dangerous—up-river by sampan."
"You'll go—alone?"
"Yes, unless—" Black glanced dryly at Sanuk Singh, who was leaning close, sucking in every word."Unless this little shadow of mine cares to risk his neck and come along. What about it, Sanuk Singh?"
There was something strangely passionate about the Sikh's sudden reply. He spit the words out. His face was full of inexplicable lust.
"I will come, sahib!"
"And I will come, too." It was the girl who spoke. Her voice, unlike Sanuk Singh's was very quiet and deliberate.
"You?" Black frowned.
"I can't stand it here, after what's happened. Even the jungle will be a relief."
"But—"
"It is my father who was murdered, Mr. Black," She said."Not yours."
Then she got up and walked away. Black stared at Sanuk Singh. Evidently the expression of his face was ludicrous, for the Sikh grinned back. Black found a cigarette, lighted it, and puffed smoke between his knees.
"Her father—not mine," he mused."Well, there's something in that. She's a whole lot like her father, too. Same looks and courage—"
"What? sahib?" Sanuk Singh murmured."Nothing."

CHAPTER FOUR

ODDLY enough, it was Sanuk Singh, not Jeanne Molert, who occupied Back's attention when the government launch began its long journey up river at high noon.
Sanuk Singh stood there in the prow of the boat, feet braced and huge body quivering, peering at high jungle walls on either shore. The man's eyes were afire; his face alive with unconcealed emotion. And yet—Sanuk Singh was a true Sikh, a high-caste member of a silent, reserved race of men who seldom show their emotions.
Black stood ten paces away, watching him. The girl, Jeanne, had gong below out of reach of the throbbing sun glare. Only Sanuk Singh and Black, And a pair of indolent Dyak soldiers, reclined on deck.
And the jungle—it rose massive on both sides of the stream. Not a thing of individual shapes and forms, but a composite, sluggish shadow—made restless by the intrusion of white men. A threatening animal groping into the river with tentacles of gnarled roots and overhanging creepers—to snatch at the man-made thing which dared disturb its domain.
Black stepped forward and touched the Sikh's shoulder.
"What is it, Sanuk Singh?" he said quietly.
"I do not know, sahib. Perhaps the thing I have waited for, for twelve years."
"What's that?"
"Perhaps death, sahib. Who can tell?"
Black turned away, frowning. There were times when he didn't understand the Sikh when he couldn't penetrate Sanuk Singh's characteristic reserve. At such times, Sanuk Singh was grateful for being left alone. Black was wise enough to get out of the way.
Returning across the deck, he pulled open a canvas stool and sat in the shade of the cabin. For a while he watched the jungle, studied the monotonous shores of the river. Then he became conscious of the sweltering heat. Tipping his pith helmet to cover his face, he leaned back and went to sleep.
At sundown the government launch reached Forte Maiti.
At Fort Maiti the resident officer came down to the makeshift wharf with a trailer of half naked natives at his heels. He chatted eagerly, assisted Jeanne out of the launch, shook hands enthusiastically with Black, and led the way to the residence.
That night, sitting in the cool of the veranda inside a cage of mosquito netting, Black asked a few necessary questions. In answer to them, the resident said that—yes, another launch had come up-river possibly four hours before Black's. It was a trading launch, not a government craft. And it hadn't stopped except to wave a halloo from the river. Two men? Yes, there were two men in it.
"And have you seen anything of a third man—an Arab," Black suggested,"who travels alone?"
The resident was sorry, but he hadn't.
Next morning before sun-up the launch slid away from Fort Maiti and groped into the sticky river-fog. In an hour the mist dissolved; the jungle on either side became a shimmering mass, every leaf of it reflecting the sun fire. Native villages appeared along the banks—queer collections of huddled, bottle-shaped shanties, stuck up on stilts above shallow water.
Late in the afternoon the launch passed Fort Renang, the final government outpost. From then on the native villages became fewer and farther apart—and smaller. When darkness came, the launch was safely moored at the dugout landing of Chief Magali.

THIS TIME there was no sheltered veranda to make the cool evening comfortable. The huts of these river Dyaks were neither cool nor sweet. Nipa roofs held in the day's heat. Stagnant water, filmed with sewage, cast up a sickly, unhealthy odor. Under the circumstances, Jeanne Molert thought it wiser to remain in the launch; and Sanuk Singh, at a word from Black, stayed to keep guard over her. The Dyak soldiers who manned the launch—six in number—curled up on deck, under insect nettings, and slept there.
Alone, Black sought out the chief's domain. The chief himself could speak English after a fashion. Black, also after a fashion, could curl his tongue around a few syllables of Dyak jargon. Sitting cross-legged on the reed mat in Magali's hut, the two men conversed.
"Two white men," Black prompted,"came up-river a little while ago, Magali?"
Magali nodded."Yes, two white men came. They came in a launch; but they would very soon have to abandon the launch because the river became shallow in another five miles, and nothing but a sampan or a dugout could creep over it."
"And a third white man, Magali? You saw him?"
"No, Twan. There was no third white man."
Black was puzzled. In his own mind he was certain that the Arab, Ali Rek was on the way to Krinjalilaya's village. And yet here was the same report he had heard in Fort Maiti. No sign of a third white man. With a slight shrug, Black pressed for more information.
"You have a sampan, Magali, which will hold six or seven people?"
Magali grinned eagerly. Yes, he had a sampan—two of them. Poles and all, and no leaks."Did the white Twan wish to buy them?"
Black brought out a handful of silver. He wanted one of the sampans, not both. Would Magali accept money?
Magali's mouth opened in a toothless smile. Accept money? Sure! Magali's village was civilized. Magali's Dyaks used white man's money all the time, to buy food and clothing from traders—and knives and Chinese gongs. Of course, another day's travel upriver would bring the white Twan into deep jungle territory where money was no good at all, but here, in Magali's village? Sure, hell!
Black paid him. Backing out of the doorway, Black descended the reed ladder, stepped into the sampan that lay underneath the hut, in the stagnant water, and took his departure. That night, when Black curled up on the deck of the launch to sleep, the sampan was moored alongside, already provisioned and ready for an early morning get away.
Next morning the launch and sampan parted company—the launch, with two Dyak soldiers to operate her, going back to Kuching; the sampan, with two whites, a Sikh and four Dyaks to man the poles, proceeding up-river into forbidden territory.
For two days the sampan continued. During that time, Black made inquiries at seven native villages; and each time, as the sampan got under way again, he turned with an increasingly troubled face to report his discoveries.
"Can't understand it," he said to Jeanne at sun-down of the second day."'I've a hunch that the way has been prepared for us. Even before I ask questions I get queer glances and significant whispers."
"And no information?" "Not a word."
"You think Geraux and Rossi have bribed the natives to act that way?"
"That's what it looks like," Black shrugged."Up here the natives are always hostile, but not exactly treacherous. If they feel like doing murder, they jump on you and get it over with. This matter of sly whispers and ugly looks isn't their way at all."

THREE hours after that one of the Dyak soldiers laid down his pole and stepped to Black's side.
"We are coming to the narrows, sahib," he said indifferently."They are dangerous in the dark because the shores are so close. Shall we stop and make camp?"
"How  far   is  Krinjalilaya's  village?"   Black demanded.
"Not far beyond the narrows, sahib." "Keep going until we get there."
The Dyak nodded and went back to his place.
Soon after, the sampan nosed into the narrow—into that part of the river where the shores were so near together that the jungle held hands over the water, and the sky was blotted out entirely. Trailing creepers scraped along the deck. Hidden tubers rubbed the bottom of the long boat, jarring the timbers under Black's feet. And the jungle was close—too close for comfort. By reaching out on either side; Black could touch the underbrush at the water's edge. Not more than a foot clearance extended beyond the sampan sides.
And then, quite suddenly, the silence of the place was rent open. A single blood-curdling yell went up from the shadows, so close that its high-pitched screech rang through Black's ear-drums: with the intensity of a knife. At the same moment, a long-hafted spear sliced out of the reeds, whined over the prow of the sampan, buried itself in the chest of the first Dyak boatman.
The Dyak screamed, fell back. Others lunged to their feet, groping for the parangs in their belts. Black's voice rang out sharply, rasping an order. Then order gave way to confusion.
The Sampan rocked, dipped perilously. Innumerable naked feet struck the deck, leaping out of the dark. Native spears hacked at Dyak parangs, wringing shrieks of pain, fear, as they cut into exposed flesh. Something soft, trembling stumbled from the protection of the cabin and fell against Black, holding on to him. The girl— Jeanne.
Black's revolver was out, spitting erratically. Hard to shoot in the dark, because these damned jungle blacks were so much like the Dyak soldiers. Hard to see anyway. But the gun cut down three of the devils as they leaped toward him. Dropped them like puppets.
The girl was showing rare courage. No whimpers—no useless talk. Just standing there, holding Black's arm. Afraid, of course; but holding herself together as well as any of them. And Sanuk Singh—where the hell was he? Where—
Black found him. The Sikh was leaning against the cabin, tearing a spear out of his leg with one hand and holding off a pair of clawing shapes with the other. Black called to him. He straightened up, hurled a native out of his path, and stumbled forward.
"Coming, sahib—"
Then he reached Black's side. Black dragged him up, spoke to him sharply.
"Get out of here, quick! Take Jeanne. Get in the river."
"But you—sahib—"
Black shoved him into the girl.
"Get out!"
Sanuk Singh obeyed. Stiff-legged, Black stood in the stern of the boat and covered his retreat. The girl, caught up in Sanuk Singh's arms, was silent; she showed no mock heroics; she understood.

BLACK'S revolver tore a hole through a savage face. The face gasped, spurted blood, crumpled down at Black's feet. Behind, Sanuk Singh slipped over the sampan's side and vanished. The river gurgled, grew silent again. Black glanced around at the empty deck, smiled grimly, and swung back to his job.
Black retreated. He swung out savagely, in a futile attempt to clear himself. Given a moment's respite, he could suck in a long breath, spin around, and dive—and trust to God that he didn't fetch up against some buried tuber, or get tangled in a maze of hidden roots. But the chance was not forthcoming. A pair of naked arms wound around his knees. He lashed down with the gun. No good—the revolver was hammered out of his hand.
After that his resistance was feeble. He slipped to the deck, under a heaving pile of perspiring bodies. Fingers found his mouth, choking him. He writhed, twisted over. More fingers  locked  into  him, dragged  at  his face, eyes... he relaxed.
But he did not lose consciousness. He felt the sampan tremble under him as it was poled into the reeds. Felt the low-hanging creepers brushing across his legs when he was picked up bodily and carried ashore.
And then he was carried, silently and swiftly, along a little used jungle trail. The jungle closed over him completely, utterly blotting out every mark of the outside world. Escape? Not a chance.
For half an hour he was borne along. They thought him unconscious evidently, for they failed to stop, even once, to examine him.
The trail ended in a clearing—a large, dry-dirt amphitheater studded with bamboo-and-nipa huts. Native brats, naked and unwashed, scurried forward to inspect the prisoner. Fat, heavy-breasted women sidled close to poke at Black's clothing. One of them drew a knife and would have cut off some knick-knack that appealed to her.
But Black's bearers moved through at a dog trot, shoving the curious village people aside. They carried Black to one of the propped-up huts and laid him on a reed floor in the musty, stifling interior. And there they left him—with a brace of silent guards outside the entrance.
For a while Black lay still, nursing his bruises. Then, with a shrug of resignation, he sat up, leaned back against the wall, and fished for a cigarette. He was sitting there, puffing peacefully at the fag, when a sudden gleam of light pierced the gloom of the doorway and lighted the interior—shining directly in his face.
Black looked up curiously. The light came nearer. It narrowed into the eye of a flash lamp, held on the level of a man's shoulder. And the face behind it, thrown into relief by the glare, was the face of Armand Geraux—the Frenchman.

CHAPTER FIVE

FOR a single, long moment, neither man uttered a word. Geraux came forward slowly, lowering the light. Standing over Black's prostrate legs, he looked into the captive's face and laughed. Not exactly a pleasant laugh—nor particularly bitter. Rather indifferent.
Black blew a curl of smoke toward the roof, watched it trail past the Frenchman's face, and said casually:
"Hello."
"Expected me, eh?" Geraux said.
"More or less, after what happened."
"Got a rather hard reception, didn't you? It was all prepared for you, Black."
"I thought as much."
"You were fortunate," Geraux said with a condescending shrug."I might have killed you."
"But you didn't."
"No. You're an engineer, Black. Molert was also an engineer. I need someone who can translate Molert's thoughts for me."
"You want a certain cryptogram deciphered, I suppose." Black murmured glancing casually up into the man's face.
"You suppose right."
"You must tell me first," Black suggested,"how you got into good graces of Krinjalilaya's murderers. I understand that this particular part of the jungle was a bit savage."
Geraux laughed—derisively this time, as if he were thoroughly enjoying himself. Reaching into his coat pocket, he brought out a metal flask. He held it up, examined it with mock seriousness, and said suddenly:
"See this? It's magic, Black. The Dyaks in this village are a superstitious lot, full of fear and tabus. Maybe you've heard about some of their fetishes and the unholy rites they go through every now and then. At any rate, they think I'm a fire-eater. I spit on a live coal and the coal bursts into flame. I strike a match, spit on the glowing end of it, and it blazes at the touch of my breath. That's why they think I'm an almighty god!"
"What's in the flask?' Black said dryly."Kerosene?"
"Sure."
"An old trick," Black shrugged."Didn't think they'd fall for it. And so you convinced them you're a little red devil, eh? They do just as you tell them?"
"Exactly."
"Then suppose you tell them to let me out of here."
"I will," Geraux smiled."Sure I will. But first—
"First I do what you suggest, hey?" "That's being sensible." "Suppose I refuse?"
Geraux took a slow step forward. He wasn't smiling now. His face was twisted unpleasantly.
"You've heard about this village, haven't you, Black? No? Don't know anything about the sun-worship and the thing they call the flaming skull?"
Black merely shrugged.
"Well—that's what is in store for you unless you give me what I want," Geraux threatened."Either you tell me what Molert meant by the figures on this paper; or you find out, first hand, all the secrets of the flaming skull. No, I won't explain it to you. Horror is a lot more effective when it's mixed with slow suspense."
Black pressed his cigarette against the floor, and lighted another. He was trying to appear nonchalant—striving to get as much information as possible without inciting the Frenchman's ire. The Frenchman meant all the difference between torture and escape. No one knew it better than Black!
"Let's see the paper," he suggested.

GERAUX groped for it, found it in an inside pocket, and handed it down. He watched Black intently as Black spread it out and studied it.
"I'll tell you—in a minute," Black said suddenly, glancing up."You think they're here in the village."
"I know they are."
"Where did they come from in the first place?"
"I don't give a damn where they came from!" Geraux snorted."Stolen from India or South Africa probably. Smuggled into Borneo. Brought up here by some trader. What the hell does it matter?"
But it mattered a lot—to Black. It gave him an entirely new idea—something he hadn't even anticipated when he asked the question. In truth, he had put the question merely to beg for time, while he could find something to work on in the cryptogram. But now—well, it was different. God, what a fool Geraux was!
"You think they're rather worthwhile, do you?" he demanded.
"What do you think!" Geraux countered suspiciously.
"Nothing. I've only seen the one Molert had."
"And that's all I've seen. That was enough. A stone the size of that one is no small thing, Black. And Molert raved about the others—said he knew where he could get half a thousand more. And the cache is here, in this blasted village. A collection of the finest diamonds in the East! What does that crypt mean?"
"I'll tell you in a minute," Black stalled."Suppose Krinjalilaya discovers what you're here for. The stones are his, you know. Think your fire-eating would be heavy enough to pull you through?"
That brought a grim laugh. Geraux glanced scornfully at the door, where the darkness crept in against the puny gleam of the flashlight.
"I came prepared," the Frenchman said coldly."I'm supposed to be a trader, Black, and the sampan I brought is filled with trade boxes. But the boxes hold a neat brace of Maxim machine guns—and enough gun-powder to blow Krinjalilaya's dump straight to eternity. Now make up your mind; either you translate the map or—"
"All right," Black shrugged."You can omit the 'or'"
"Then do it."
Black leaned forward. He had an idea—a cunning one, based on a little something he had noticed while Krinjalilaya's  Dyaks were caring him to the village. Back there in the jungle, about a half mile from the clearing, he had been lugged past the entrance of tabu trail. He knew enough about Borneo to realize the significance of it.
Such tabu trails were the exclusive territory of the village witch-doctors. They were the "trails of the virgins"—forbidden, for religious reasons, to all members of the village except the all-knowing one and the chief. It was death to enter them— death to defile them. They were tabu, marked off, tagged with an inflexible "no trespassing" sign.
But it was a God saving knowledge for Back, and he made use of it. Shoving the paper under Geraux's flashlight, he pointed with his fore-finger to the central diagram:
"This figure," he explained, "represents two trees. The criss-cross lines predicate reed ropes; stretched between the boles of the trees to block the entrance to a trail. The little jiggers, hanging on the lines are ornaments, charms—bits of hair or grass or animals hide. Know what that means, Geraux?"
Geraux frowned, shook his head.
"Ever hear of a tabu trail? Black prompted.
Geraux's eyes widened thoughtfully. He took hold of the paper and held it close to his face, directing the light upon it. For a moment, he examined it intently. Then he nodded.
"You are—sure?" he demanded.
"I don't have to be. You can see for yourself."
"Yes—"
"Can you think of any better place to hide a fortune in gems? Black smiled. Tabu trails are forbidden to every black in the village except the witch-doctor and the chief. The best cache in the world!"
"And where," Geraux frowned,"is Krinjalilaya's tabu trail."
"Half a mile from here in the direction of the river."
"How do you know?"
"I was carried past it on the way here."
Geraux grinned with satisfaction. Straightening up, he stepped to the, door, turning the light on the floor at his feet. Evidently, he had forgotten the rest of the bargain.
"Just a minute," Black scowled."You're neglecting something."
He turned.
"Yes? What?"
"My getting out of here."
"I couldn't get you out if I wanted to," Geraux shrugged."Be more than my life's worth."
"But, man alive—"
"Besides, I'm not sure I want to. You know too damned much."
"You mean your word is no good?" Black said softly.
"I mean I'm not a damned fool!"
Black thought quickly. He was no fool—he had half expected this conclusion. He had figured out another scheme—a crazy, improbable one, but the only means of escape that was left, if Geraux walked out on him.
He stumbled forward, one hand outstretched to claw at Geraux's arm.
"Geraux—" Black's voice was weak, resigned.
The Frenchman turned, impatiently.
"At least—give me a drink—will you. I'm burning up—"

THE FRENCHMAN hesitated. Then, slowly, an ugly twist crept across his mouth, and he laughed. Dragging the flask of kerosene from his pocket he flung it at Black's feet.
"Sure. Drink this!" he sneered. Then he went out.
Smiling very quietly, Black picked up the flask and tucked it into his belt. Then he walked to the door, peered out, and smiled again when he saw the upright shadow of the Dyak who stood guard over the hut. Stepping back again, he reached into his pocket.
The smile faded from his lips. His groping hands brought out a half-used pack of cigarettes, a pencil stub, a few grains of loose tobacco. Savagely he turned his pockets inside out, all of them. Over and over again he examined them. Cold sweat gathered above his eyes.
He groaned. The very thing that meant life and death—matches—he had thrown away foolishly by lighting unnecessary cigarettes. Now that they meant everything in the world, they were gone.
A lighted cigarette meant escape. The other—meant death. With the glowing end of a cigarette, and a mouthful of kerosene, he could have made magic. Without it, he could only wait for the inevitable.
It was noon the next day when they came for him. Remembering the cast-iron force of his fists in the last encounter, the two Dyaks lashed his arms before leading him out. Then they dragged him into the open, where four more of Krinjalilaya's men were waiting.
The village was abandoned. Not a soul was there to see the lone white man, surrounded by his escort of six natives, trudge silently across the clearing to the jungle on the opposite side. A moment later Black found himself on a well-beaten trail with the glaring sun overhead and thick, sweet smelling foliage on either side—and the point of an insistent spear in the small of his back.
The trail was short—not more than five minutes from end to end. It led to a narrow, irregular amphitheater in the very heart of the jungle. There in the center lay an oblong stone slab, the shape of a coffin. Beside it, struck atop an upright stake some six feet above the ground, gleamed—a skull.
It was the witch doctor who leaped toward him now, motioning his escort to fall away. A thin, bony fellow with diseased face and horribly painted body, Black shuddered as the man's hands closed over him and pulled him toward the slab.
But Black wasted no time wondering what they were about to do with him. He knew instinctively that he was destined to witness the "flaming skull" affair which rumor associated with Krinjalilaya's village. But there would be time enough for all that later. At present, he sought frantically for an opening of escape.

IT WAS not forthcoming. At a word from the witch doctor, three warriors stepped from the circle, and stretched Black full-length on the stone slab, face toward the heavens. They lashed his arms and legs to the rock, making their reed ropes fast to stakes driven in the ground on both sides. Then they stepped back, and the witch doctor began his insane talk.
Black understood some of it. It was guttural invitation for the sun god to comes out and claim his victim. At least, that was the substance of it. But more than that, Black was beginning to understand the purpose of the rock slab and the death's head.
The skull itself was not particularly gruesome. It might have been at one time but the tsetse flies had long ago cleaned it and made it a bleached, empty white thing. But it was bound to the top of the stake, directly above Black's upturned face; and something glistened in one of its gaping eye-sockets.
For a long while Black could not discover what the gleaming thing was. It was difficult to stare up at it, because the sun directly overhead, was blinding. But as the witch-doctor's harangue continued and the old women in the surrounding circle began to beat, softly and insistently, on brass gongs, Black thought he knew the thing was a bit of glass—just a common bit of round glass, like the outer lens of a telescope or a pair of field glasses. Really, it gave the skull a comical expression. A monocle in a dead face.
A moment later Black realized that there was nothing comical about it. It was torture, and it was fiendishly clever.
The gongs beat louder. The witch doctor's voice climbed to a screech. All eyes in the clearing were staring up at the sun.
And then, very suddenly, a tiny white spot appeared in the center of Black's forehead. The sun had reached its zenith. Its fiery rays shone directly upon the skull—shone through a jagged hole in the pate of the death's head, and focused cruelly on the lens glass.
Black twisted his head and looked up again, frowning. He knew now what lens was there for— to concentrate the entire heat of the sun into a single spot, and focus that spot upon the forehead of the victim who lay below. It was cunning— infernally cunning!
He was writhing now; and they were leaning forward, watching him like a circle of blood-hungry idols. No man could keep still and invite a quick finish, with that spot of fire driving into his brain. The victim had to squirm.
But Black was not through—not yet. Not until his brain snapped altogether. Thinking about the finish would drive him mad, he knew. He centered his mind on other things—on escape.

STRAINING upward, he tested the strength of the reed ropes that held him. They were tough. It was impossible to break them. But he thought of something else—something more significant. This was the rainy season. The ground was damp, probably. The soil held the stakes—the stakes which the ropes were secured—could be worked loose, possibly, if he had time enough.
But it had to be done cautiously, or else Krinjalilaya's devils would divine his intent. And, by God, it was done cautiously. Each time he squirmed on the rock, seemingly to relieve the torment of the sun spot, he wrenched all his might against the ropes.
The stakes were loosening. He could feel it, every time he strained on the ropes. His legs were still fast; but his hands would be free in another moment. If he could get up then and fight—and do something—
Then, very suddenly, the air above his face vibrated with a sharp whining sound. There was a dull, almost inaudible thud. On the stake, above the slab of rock, the grinning torture skull turned half around with the impact.
A sob of relief came from Black's lips. He knew what had happened, well enough. A bullet, fired from the jungle out of a rifle equipped with a silencer, had clipped the skull out of position. The glass lens was still intact-still stuck in the skull's eye-socket-but the fire-spot no longer hammered into Black's brain.
The Dyaks had seen it, too. They didn't know what had caused it. They didn't know that the report of a rifle could be silenced. To them it was something uncanny, supernatural. They were standing erect, staring with wider eyes.
Black saw his chance. He called out to attract their attention; trying to make his voice fit their beliefs. Then, as they turned to gape at him, he put forth all his strength and strained upwards. The rope stakes came out of the ground, inch by inch, releasing him. He bent over, took hold of the reeds that secured his feet. In front of their very eyes he forced the ropes loose and stood up.
They fell away from him muttering like parakeets. He stood by the slab facing them in silence, arms folds across his chest. Then he saw they were staring at something else as well- something behind him. He turned, and saw Sanuk Sing and the girl walking toward him.

CHAPTER SIX

THE SIKH held a rifle in his hands. He came forward with slow, deliberate steps, calculated to make an impression on the superstitious minds of Krinjalilaya's Dyaks. Beside him, with white, fearful face came Jeanne.
Black stood very still, waiting. His life and the lives of the Sikh and the girl were on a roulette wheel at that moment, and he knew it. There was a bare chance that the Dyaks would stand their ground and allow the three whites to leave unmolested.
For that matter, Sanuk Singh and the girl were mad even to have shown themselves, and yet, Black knew why they were doing it. They knew that he had been weakened by the torture. They knew that if he attempted to strides across the clearing alone, and gain the safety of the jungle unaided, he would stumble. And the moment he did that, his hold on the natives would be over.
But even now the Dyaks were restless. A single man among them could have turned them.
One man, leaping forward, would have brought them all after him!
And it was the witch-doctor who did it. The witch-doctor fearful of his own reputation, took the chance.
He sprang at Black's throat. Black stiffened to meet him. Behind Black, Sanuk Singh froze in his tracks and jerked up his rifle.
There was no report—merely a dull click. The bullet ripped into the Dyak's chest, felling him in mid-air. He screeched once, clawed at the wound, and sprawled face down at Black's feet.
And that settled it.
Against rifles or knives, Krinjalilaya's Dyaks would have rushed forward. Against a fire-stick that spoke in silence, they cringed back in terror. Nothing  on  earth  could   have   rallied  them  to attack.
Black retreated, step by step. Reaching the Sikh's side, he said quietly:
"Walk backwards to the opening of the village trail. Take it slow and easy."
"You are hurt, sahib?" The Sikh questioned anxiously.
"I'm all right."
"But—"
"Get moving. This won't last forever!"
Sanuk Singh obeyed. Nevertheless, he kept his rifle ready in his hands; and the close presence of that steel barrel gave Black a pleasant sense of security. In single line, with the girl in the middle, the three whites fell back.
It was a wise move, based on Black's knowledge of native psychology. So long as the natives were forced to attack face to face, they would not rush. But let them see, even for a moment, that a man is off guard—let them vision a chance for treachery—and a hurtling spear might find its mark. Such a spear would be the beginning of murder.
The Dyaks were cowering in the center of the clearing. Step by step the three whites backed away from them. Twenty yards lay between Sanuk Singh and the opening of the trail, which meant safety. Now ten yards. Now five.
"A little more, sahib," the Sikh said softly."And then—"
His voice broke off short. He stiffened and stood still as a cold, hard lump pressed into his back. Behind him another voice—Geraux's said crisply:
"And then—what?"
Black spun around. He took a step forward, and stopped. Rossi, the half-caste, was standing in the entrance to the trail, leveling a revolver at him. Rossi was grinning.
The girl did not cry out. Black was grateful for that. His nerves were already on the edge of cracking, and her scream would have finished them. She did cringe against him, though, and he put his arm around her shoulder.
Sanuk Singh was more impassive than any of them. Even when Geraux took the rifle out of his hands, the Sikh did not speak.
"Going to walk right out on us, were you?" Geraux leered."Just as we were coming to see them put on the finishing touches. I don't think so."
"What do you want?" Black said thickly.
"Nothing. Nothing at all. It isn't what we want; it's what they want."
"What do you mean?"
"You killed their devil-doctor," Geraux shrugged."They don't let a thing like that slide by, Black. They want payment. If they don't pay of on you, they'll stretch us out on that cute slab of rock. Come on, all of you; you're going back to the village."

BLACK turned, very slowly, to look back at the clearing. The Dyaks were standing there, watching in bewilderment. They hadn't grasped the situation yet—but they would. And when they did—
The girl looked up into Black's face. She was still pressed close against him. Now she spoke, for the first time.
"What shall we do?"
But Black jerked around, confronting Geraux.
"They think I killed their witch-doctor," he said curtly."There's no reason for turning these two over to them."
"I know that." "Then let them go."
"Let 'em get back to civilization and tell tales, eh? You know better than that, Black."
Black steeped forward, pleading."Suppose I promise you they won't talk, Geraux. Will you—"
But Geraux was not inclined to listen. Thrusting Black aside, he strode through the deep grass toward the knot of natives. He talked to them for a moment; then, with an ugly grin, he turned and pointed to the three prisoners. The Dyaks surged forward.
Black stood rigid, waiting for the inevitable. There was no chance for escape—not one in a thousand. The half-caste's revolver blocked the mouth of the trail, removing every trace of hope.
Brown hands closed over Black's arms, twisting them behind him. He was trussed up again. The girl and Sanuk Singh received the same treatment.
Then Geraux's face was thrust into his.
"You'll have to wait until tomorrow for the show," the Frenchman said dryly."They tell me the effect isn't so good unless sun is directly overhead. They wanted to stretch the affair out— make it a three day celebration with a victim for each day, saving you for the last—but I convinced 'em to make it a three-in-one carnival tomorrow. You're too damned clever at escaping, Black."
Black choked his retort. A moment later he was pushed roughly into the trail and hustled along in the direction of Krinjalilaya's village.
An hour later he lay on the floor of the prison hut, beside Sanuk Singh. Hands and feet were roped now, with enough reeds to bind a water-buffalo. The girl Jeanne had been removed to another hut a hundred yards distant.
For three hours Black lay without moving. He had formed a plan of escape, but it required darkness. Meanwhile he needed strength. His head ached savagely from the torture. His body was stiff, lame.
Once he turned over and said to Sanuk Singh:
"Where did you get the rifle?"
"Out of Geraux's sampan," the Sikh said quietly.
"I thought so."
And that was all, until daylight became night. Guttural voices outside the closed door indicated a change of guards. Black waited until the new guard should be less vigilant; then he rolled against Sanuk Singh and whispered something.
"It is good, sahib," the Sikh replied."But my teeth are stronger than yours."
Black submitted. The Sikh twisted around until he could reach Black's bonds with his mouth. Then, with tireless persistence, he chewed the reed ropes until they were ragged.
Half an hour later Black stood up, free. In another moment, Sanuk Singh stood beside him, also free. Black fumbled in his pockets, brought out a cigarette and the metal flask that, Geraux had flung at him a long time ago, and said simply:
"Got a match!"
The Sikh had one. Striking it, Black ignited the fag. Then, twisting the top off the flask, he sucked in a mouthful of kerosene. With the glowing cigarette in his fingers, he stepped to the door.
There was an even chance that the guard outside, would whirl around and lunge forward as soon as he opened it. He had to take that chance. Flinging the door wide, he stood erect in the entrance.
It was dark out there, but not too dark for the guard to see him. The Dyak whirled, sure enough. Instead of rushing, he stood stock still, gaping. The sight of the white prisoner, unbound and standing on two feet was a little too much for him.

AND THAT was the precise moment for Black's scheme to unfold itself. Flinging his hand out, Black held the cigarette at arm's length, just a dull crimson gleam in the dark. Then, while the Dyak stared at him, he deliberately spat on the glowing end of it. The cigarette burst into a sudden livid flame.
The Dyak's face expanded with fright. Like a ghost he turned and vanished.
Black stepped back. In a quiet, even voice he asked, Sanuk Singh for another match—and lighted another cigarette Then he waited.
And   the   scheme   worked. The   guards returned, and with him came Krinjalilaya's chief of the tribe. Krinjalilaya—a tawny, shriveled Dyak of questionable  age, with   black  eyes  that were decidedly suspicious.
And the chief's eyes widened, too, when they saw that both the prisoners were unbound. In a cutting voice the chief spoke.
He spoke in his own tongue; but Black would have known the gist of it no matter what the dialect. The meaning was evident.
"This utter fool of a guard has reported to me that you are a maker of magic. I do not believe it. Show me!"
Black  answered   him  with   a  shrug. With premeditated care Black took the metal flask from his pocket and  held  it to his lips. Krinjalilaya reached out for it.
"Tabu," Black grunted.
The chief's hand darted back fearfully. Black took a mouthful of the vile tasting liquid.
Then he performed, for the chief's benefit, the same trick he had done for the guard. No doubt of it—Krinjalilaya was convinced!
"You have another white man here," Black said curtly,"who claims to be a witch-doctor. He made fire for you by spitting with his mouth. Is that correct?"
"The white man is a liar," Black said."He cannot make magic without my assistance. He made it before only because I permitted him to do so. Bring him here and I will prove it."
"You have done no more than he did," the chief protested.
"Do as I tell you!" Black snapped."Or I will breathe fire over the whole of your village! Go!"
Krinjalilaya went.
Alone again with Sanuk Singh, Black went abruptly to work. From the Sikh's belt he took a handful of cartridges. With the Sikh's knife he opened them and removed the powder.
When he finished, he had a fistful of the stuff, and Sanuk Singh's belt was empty. Black dumped the powder into his pocket.
"Now listen," he said tensely."When I go out there, I've got to go alone. Soon as I'm gone, you hack a hole through the wall here, make a getaway, get Jeanne, and light out for the other clearing. It will take wits, oldboy—and plenty of courage. You can do it."
"And you, sahib?"
"I'm staking my play on luck and superstition. If the luck works, I'll meet you in the torture place. But if I don't get there before daylight, you and Jeanne return to Kuching. Got that?"
"Yes, sahib."
"All right. Now we can wait."
They waited. Outside in the village a fire had been started. They could hear voices and see restless figures passing back and forth in the light. Suddenly Black remembered something.
"Give me some matches," he said."I may need them.
The Sikh complied. In silence again, the two men continued to wait.
A little while later Krinjalilaya returned."It is ready."
Black turned, glanced significantly at Sanuk Singh, and followed the chief out.

THE CHIEF had obeyed orders. In the center of the village a fire burned, and Krinjalilaya's people squatted  around  it. Geraux and  Rossi stood there, scowling. Evidently they had been reluctant about coming; but Krinjalilaya had put the proposition in such a way that refusal meant death. Their only hold on the Dyak was his fear of them.
A murmur of voices greeted Black when he stepped into the firelight. He looked scornfully at Geraux and turned with an abrupt jerk, to the Dyak chief.
"Tell your people to watch closely," he ordered.
Krinjalilaya repeated the message in a loud voice.
"Now order one of your warriors to pick up a piece of glowing wood, and hold it in his hand."
The chief spoke. A young native close to the fire leaned over, secured a bit of wood, with a glowing red end, came forward with hesitant steps.
Black took out the tabu flask. He drank from it—at  least, they thought  he did. Folding  his, arms, he spit upon the gleaming log. The Dyaks fell back in consternation as the wood crackled into flames.
Black waited until the trick had taken full effect. Then he, said, coldly.
"Tell the other white man to do as much."
Krinjalilaya turned to Geraux. Scowling, Geraux stepped forward to take the flask from Black's hand. Black stood rigid, spoke the word "Tabu!" in a voice loud enough for all of them to hear and threw, the metal flask, neck open, into the fire. With a sudden roar the flames leaped out of it.
"The other white man can not, breathe fire," Black said evenly."If he can, let him do it."
Geraux was silent."Behind him, the half-caste stared fearfully into the expectant faces of the natives. But Geraux could not produce fire. He had nothing to produce it with!
Black's hand slid into his pocket, unobserved, and came out again. He bent swiftly to the ground and seemingly scooped up a handful of loose dirt. Shouting to them to watch, he flung the dirt upon the fire. The stuff went up in a spurt of crimson, filling the air with white smoke.
"Tell the other white man to make fire out of the ground, if he can," Black challenged.
Krinjalilaya repeated the challenge. Other voices took it up. The natives surged forward, crowding nearer. As for Geraux, he knew what had produced the fire, but he did not have a convenient pocket full of gun powder! He could do nothing.
He shifted nervously from one foot to the other. He was wise enough to know that his life was at stake, hanging in the weight of his next move. He took time to think.
But Rossi, the half-caste, stared for a single moment   into  the   menacing   Dyak  faces, and realized that the game was up. There was but one chance   left  to  convince Krinjalilaya's  people. Rossi took it.
He reached down abruptly and clawed the, revolver out of his belt. Black was not watching him. It was murder.
But the revolver failed to talk. Before it came clear something sharp and gleaming whined through the darkness and buried itself to the hilt in the half-caste's back. Rossi pitched forward on his face with the unused gun gripped in his outstretched hand. Sanuk Singh's long bladed kard protruded with grisly significance from his body. The Sikh had hurled his knife with uncanny accuracy!
It was finished, then for Geraux. He whirled about and raced into the darkness, away from the fire. His move was so quick and unexpected that the Dyaks had no chance to lay hands on him. The outer dark smothered him—and he was gone.
The whole thing was so sudden that Black could do nothing but stand still and stare. For a full sixty seconds he remained motionless. A dozen naked forms slid past him in pursuit of the Frenchman. Krinjalilaya came forward timidly, touched his arm, and looked into his face.
"What does the fire god wish?" was the substance of what Krinjalilaya said in a whispering, fearful voice.
"To talk with you alone," Black said.
The chief nodded. Holding Black's arm, he paced across the clearing to the largest of the huts. There, in the feeble reflection of the fire which came through the open doorway, he sat on the reed mat and waited for Black to talk.
Half an hour later Black emerged from the hut, strode casually across the village, and vanished in the jungle.

CHAPTER SEVEN

IT LACKED three hours to daylight when Black reached the torture clearings. Sanuk Singh and the girl had arrived there in safety, despite the danger of discovery by the Dyak hunters who were searching for Geraux. And when Black appeared, the girl ran toward him with a little cry of happiness. She did not hesitate about it; she ran right into his arms and clung to him. It was so open and straight-forward that it brought a smile to Black's lips.
"What's the matter?" he said."Afraid?" "Do you blame me, Carey?"
"No—not exactly. Nothing to be afraid of now, though."
"We're not out of this terrible place yet." "We're not going out; we're going deeper in!" "What?"
"If you'll wait a minute, little lady," Black said,"I'll explain it to you."
With his arm around her shoulders, he walked through the grass to Sanuk Singh. The Sikh waited, grinning.
"You throw a good kard, old boy,"  Black thanked him
"Did it kill him, sahib?"
"Surer than a bullet."
"Then I'm glad. He would have killed you."
Black nodded grimly. Stripping off his coat, he spread it across the torture slab. Then, lifting Jeanne in his arms, and laughing at her consternation, he set her down on it. He noticed that the natives had moved their infernal skull back into its proper position.
"Better stand out of the deep grass," he said to Sanuk Singh, explaining his action."Snakes don't sleep at night, old boy. We can thank God we're out of that mess, without inviting a cobra slash."
"But why don't we leave here?" Jeanne protested.
"Diamonds," Black said.
"You mean—you have discovered the cache?"
"What sort of stones did you expect?" Black countered.
"Why, I don't know."
"Some sort of fabulous collection of gems, stolen by a chance trader and hidden hereabouts?"
"Yes. I think so."
"Geraux thought that, too," Black shrugged."In fact, he was quite fanatical about it."
"Well?"
"He was wrong. If he'd stopped to think a little more, he would have realized the truth. The stone your father showed him in Matamuri's shop was a finished diamond; that's what threw him off. He didn't know that when your father brought it to the shop in the first place it was in the rough—and Matamuri cut it."
"Then the stones here are uncut?"
Black laughed at her bewilderment. Turning, he said to Sanuk Singh:
"What do you think, old boy?"
"I think there is no cache, sahib. I think there is a mine."
"Right!"
"You mean," Jeanne said eagerly,"that Krinjalilaya has a diamond mine here in the jungle?"
"Not exactly. You see, I talked to him for a while before coming here. I asked him where the diamonds were and he went blank. Didn't know what a diamond was. Then I asked a lot of questions about the stone he had given your father. I described your father to him, and made him remember."
"And then?"
"Well, it seems that the Dyaks here stumbled on the stones by mistake. Being ignorant, they didn't know what the diamonds were—to them, the stones were nothing but convenient bits of hard rock, good for carving ornaments and knife handles and scratching designs on their brass gongs. Even your father didn't inform Krinjalilaya that the stones were worth money."
"Where are the stones?"
"According to Krinjalilaya, the place is about a mile from here along a jungle trail on the opposite side of the clearing. That's why we're waiting for day light. I don't like the idea of exploring the jungle at night."

DAYLIGHT was slow in coming. When it finally crept into the jungle, and the sun rose in a misty crimson above the clearing, Black stretched himself and yawned. Moving the girl's head from his shoulder, he stood up and looked about him. Evidently the coast was clear. Danger, for once was not lurking in the shade of the nearest clump of reeds.
"Let's go," Black shrugged, lifting the girl up.
They found the trail—a narrow, unused path that twisted farther and farther away from the village, into the jungle. Single file they followed it, with Black leading the way and the girl in the center. In an hour's time they reached Krinjalilaya's "place of hard stones."
It was no more than a rectangular park-like opening surrounded by thicket. The trail ran in one side and out the other; but to the left of the trail, twenty feet distant, the ground showed unmistakable signs of having been worked. True, it was overgrown now with sparse tufts of nipa grass; but it had at some time or other been dug up with crude, shallow instruments.
The girl was evidently disappointed. Sanuk Singh said nothing; merely stood still and waited for Black to speak. Black strode to the irregular patch of turf and went down on hands and knees.
Eagerly he scraped the surface with his fingers and lifted the soil to the light. His mouth tightened. Turning he spoke abruptly to the Sikh.
"Bring your knife here." "I no longer have it, sahib."
Black scowled. No, of course not. The Sikh's kardwas buried in Rossi's body, back there in the village.
"Round up a piece of sharp stick then," Black called.
Sanuk Singh found one and brought it forward. Standing over his companion, he watched Black tear methodically at the loose soil until a hole; more than three feet deep gaped up at him.
Then, with painstaking care, Black sifted the dirt through his fingers, a handful at a time. When he stood up, he held two ugly, irregular nuggets in his palm.
"Blue ground," he said quietly "Know what that means, old boy?"
"Yes, sahib. Diamonds."
"Know what these are?" Black smiled, dropping the two stones into the Sikh's hand.
"Yes, sahib. Diamonds."
"All right," Black said."Rig up some sort of a lean-to and see what you can find in the way of food. There ought to be bush-pigs about here, if you can corner them. I'm going to see how far this blue ground extends."
"Yes sahib."
The Sikh went back to Jeanne and told her, in an unemotional voice, what Black had found. Black, turning to wave his hand to them, picked up the sharp stick and pushed into the jungle.
As he hacked through the unbroken brush, Black's thoughts were centered on the two stones he had found. They weren't exceptionally large, either of them, not more than twenty carats at most. Cutting would reduce their weight by a good sixty percent; and at first glance the stones were not regular enough to take a brilliant cut—which would also reduce their value.
For half a mile Black continued. Then choosing an open space, he tested the soil. It was the same soft, silty clay—"blue ground." Before he had dug a pit four feet in depth he held another pair of black stones in his hand; one of them large, the other insignificant. Then, getting to his feet, he turned sharp right and pushed on again.
In this manner he learned that the "pipe" was an unusually large one, scattered over a territory of more yards than he dared think. How deep it extended, he had no way of telling. But the stones in his pocket, which he had scraped up at random near the surface, were enough to bring dreams!
The thing rose up in front of him as he turned back to the clearing. He saw it in living reality. A cluster of workmen's houses, over here on the right. The office building built over the mouth of the hoist. Fifty yards distant, the pump shaft.
Deep below the surface would be the drifts, filled with laborers. Push-cars would trundle along them like ants, to be lifted, to the surface in skips, where the blue ground would be piled up to "weather"—to be ready for the chute. Then the final achievement—the pulverized blue ground sliding down the corrugated iron runway—the "black glitter" sticking to the greased sides. God what a dream!
And like all other dreams, it was smashed wide open. Smashed by an ominous, hellish sound from the direction of Krinjalilaya's village. The boom of drums!
Black began to run.

THE DRUMS were louder and more insistent when Black reached the clearing. A cry of relief gasped ours of his lips when he saw Jeanne Molert standing there, in the entrance to a narrow lean-to.
Stumbling forward, he stood beside her, struggling to get his breath. Then, with a little laugh at his own discomfort, he said:
"Guess I've got the creeps. It gave me a scare."
"It frightened us too," Jeanne admitted.
"Nothing's happened?"
"No."
"Where's Sanuk Singh?"
"He went to investigate."
"And left you here alone?" Black scowled.
"He said he knew you would come quickly, as soon as you heard the drums."
"Yes—I guess that's true enough. All right; we'll wait for him."
Black sat down at the girl's feet, hugging his knees. Jeanne touched his shoulder and said:
"What did you find, Carey?" He looked up, smiling.
"Enough so that we're returning with mining equipment," he said,"as soon as we reach Kuching. Look here."
He took the stones out of his pocket and showed them to her. They numbered eleven. Four of them were larger than the one Captain Molert had found.
The girl's eyes widened.
"And this is what father discovered?" she whispered."This mine?"
"That's what he did," Black said quietly."And when Sanuk Singh gets back here, well make tracks for Kuching."
But Sanuk Singh did not get back—not until the day had worn away and deep shadows filled the little clearing. Long ago the drums had ceased throbbing. Long ago the jungle had settled into its half restless silence. For hours. Black had been sitting impatiently beside the lean-to, staring at the place where Sanuk Singh would first put in an appearance.
In the end, he came—carrying a limp, twisted body over his shoulder. Striding through the deep grass, he lowered his burden to the ground and turned to face Black.
"Have I been away long, sahib?" he said.
But Black was staring into the face of the other one. The man's throat was bleeding from a knife slash, and he was unconscious. He was Ali Rek, the Arab.
"He is not dead, sahib," the Sikh shrugged."He is dying, but I think he is not dead yet."
"No. He's alive." Black was down beside him, washing the wound with water from Jeanne's water-bottle.
Rek stirred painfully, but did not resist. The cords of his neck had been cut.
"Better let him die, sahib," Sanuk Singh threw in."He deserves it. He killed Captain Molert sahib."
"How do you know that?" Black demanded, looking up. Jeanne, tool was staring intently at the Sikh, waiting for him to speak.
"It is a long story, sahib." "Tell it then."
"We heard the drums, and I went to investigate," Sanuk Singh explained."I went all the way to the village before I learned the cause of them, sahib. Then I saw a procession of Dyak devils walking in from the river, carrying this man among them. They took him to the prison hut where you and I were secured, sahib. Then I waited."
"Why?"
"I knew that you wished to speak to him."
"Well—what then?"
"When the shadows came, sahib, I crept to the hut and released him. We escaped from the village, but we had to fight—and the Arab was wounded. I picked him up and carried him over my shoulder; and by running as fast as I knew how, I reached the place in the jungle where they did not find us. But the Arab was dying, sahib. I thought he would die before I could bring him here, so I asked him some questions."
"What questions?" Black said, looking up again while he forced water between Ali Rek's lips.
"The same ones you would have asked him, sahib. I told him about the torture, and threatened to take him back to it unless he told me the truth about Captain Molert, sahib. He told me."
It was Jeanne who stepped forward and gripped the Sikh's arm.
"What did he tell you, Sanuk Singh?"
"He said that he overheard Captain Molert talking about the diamonds in Matamuri's shop. He followed Captain Molert home and watched him through the window of the room, memsahib. He saw Captain Molert examining the diamond and drawing diagrams on a piece of paper. Their he killed him, and took both the paper and the stone."
"That is all he said?"
"Yes, memsahib. He was unconscious while I brought him here."
"Thank you Sanuk Singh," the girl said quietly."You did the right thing."

THE SIKH stepped back. At a nod from Black he helped lift the Arab into the lean-to. A moment later Black walked to Jeanne Molert's side and took the girl's hand.
"We can't leave until morning," he said simply."It isn't safe. Why don't you try to get some sleep?"
She nodded heavily. Sanuk Singh's report had brought back a lot of old thoughts, and she did not feel like talking. But she went into the lean-to and lay down on the soft ground, with Black's coat wrapped around her. In a little while she was asleep.
Two hours later, Ail Rek died. There was nothing terrifying about his death; he simply stopped breathing. In fact; neither Black nor Sanuk Singh knew the moment of his passing; but when Black crept into the lean-to and bent over him, he was dead. As silently as possible, Black and the Sikh picked him up and carried him into the jungle, where they left him.
It was there, as the two men stood over Ali Rek's body, that Sanuk Singh made a strange request.
"There is something I have long wanted to do, sahib," he said deliberately."May I go and do it?"
"What?"
"I would talk to the ghost of my brother, Rhej Singh, who died here."
Black looked into the Sikh's face and found something there which he did not comprehend. It would have been useless to refuse; he knew that. In spite of Sanuk Singh's devotion, the Sikh would have disobeyed orders and gone ashtray.
"I have waited all my life to do it, sahib." "All right. Go ahead."
Sanuk Singh turned, walked stolidly across the clearing and disappeared in the jungle.
Frowning, Black paced back to the lean-to and sat down beside the girl.
The hours passed on, each one dragging itself out of its last interminable second. Midnight came, went, and Sanuk Singh did not return. Black leaned against the wooden prop behind him and tried to think of something else. Tried to think of the stones in his pocket and the possibilities of bringing mining machinery here to Krinjalilaya's village. But his thoughts returned inevitably to Sanuk Singh.
He remembered other things then—the Sikh's unholy lust at the first mention of the name Krinjalilaya. His persistent silence in regard to his reasons for coming. The many little peculiarities he had shown on the long trek up-river.
And then Sanuk Singh came back. Came with weary, dragging steps across the clearing and sat down beside Black. But he offered no explanation.
The Sikh's clothes were stained with wet dirt. His hands, fingernails, were caked. His boots were thick with the stuff. Yet he said nothing; nor did he attempt to clean himself.
Black noticed that. It was unusual—the first time Sanuk Singh had ever shown indifference. Cleanliness is one of the key words in the Sikh creed. And yet here was Sanuk Singh sprawled full length on the ground, staring with open eyes at the roof of the lean-to—silent as the jungle itself. Not like him at all.
And the Sikh remained so, even when daylight took the place of darkness. Black glanced at him more than once as the three prepared to leave; and the girl, too, noticed that something was changed in him.
Finally, as they advanced across the clearing toward the jungle, Black took hold of the Sikh's shoulder and said quietly:
"Glad to be going back, eh? Had enough of it."
"Yes, sahib. But I am not going back." 
"What?"
"I am going with you as far as the clearing, sahib. Then I leave you."
Black stared at him and frowned "What the hell are you talking about?"
"You will see, sahib. I am going to join my brother, Rhej Singh."
And that was all. Sanuk Singh fell back a step and walked in the rear, to avoid further questions.

IN SILENCE, Black led the way out. It was a mile from the lean-to to the torture clearing. Black's plan was to reach the clearing, circle around it, and push through the jungle without touching the village proper. In that manner he hoped to reach the river and follow the river trail to the next village. There he could procure a dugout and make the rest of the journey down-river by water.
But the plan was rudely interrupted. Sanuk Singh interrupted it.
The Sikh pushed past Jeanne and stood before Black. He held out his hand stiffly.
"Good-bye, sahib," he said simply.
"Not good-bye, old boy," Black murmured."You're coming with us."
"No, sahib. In a little while I shall join Nanak and the nine gurus and the ghost of my brother."
Black took the man's hand and drew him closer.
"Why?" he said quietly, looking squarely into Sanuk Singh's face.
"For vengeance, sahib."
"And why do you wish vengeance?"
The Sikh straightened to his full height. The muscles of his face contracted; his eyes blazed with the thoughts behind them.
"At one time, sahib," he said very slowly,"I had a brother. His name was Rhej Singh; and he was a true Sikh. Then one day when I was still a boy, Rhej Singh went into these jungles with a party of explorers, seeking the feathers of the king pheasant. Only one of the party returned, sahib— and he was not my brother."
The Sikh's gaze passed from Black to the girl, as if he wished both of them to understated the intensity of his hate.
"From the man who returned, sahib," he continued,"I learned the story of the flaming skull. I learned that Krinjalilaya's devils put my brother to death upon the stone slab, torturing him to make him cry out. He did not cry out, sahib—that I know. But they killed him."
"And now?" Black suggested softly.
"Last night, sahib, I prepared vengeance. You need me no longer, and now I am free to do what I come here to do. In order that my revenge may be complete, I must give myself up to them. It was my brother's ghost who suggested this, sahib, and who told me the method of retribution. You will see that there could be no method more fitting."
Black took the Sikh's hand in both of his own. There was no use trying to dissuade Sanuk Singh from his purpose. His mind was made up—and he was a Sikh.
"Good-bye, sahib."
"Good-bye old boy," Black said simply.
Sanuk Singh turned to the girl.
"And you, memsahib—I hope you will be happy."
The girl's eyes were wet. She made no attempt to hide it— just stood there and stared into Sanuk Singh's face. The Sikh drew her forward, put her hand in Black's hand, and said quietly:
"You will be happy together."
Then he turned and walked stolidly down the path. Twenty steps he took, while Black and the girl stood motionless and watched him.
And then, with a sudden jerk, Sanuk Singh froze in his tracks. Through the jungle came another sound, startlingly close—the chant of Dyak voices and the hammering beat of gongs!
The girl cried out. Black could have laughed—laughed with relief. Anything—even fighting—was better than standing there and watching Sanuk Singh pace away.
But it was not fighting. The sounds came no nearer. Black realized where they were coming from. It was the torture clearing, straight ahead through the jungle.
He took the girl's arm and pulled her forward. Sanuk Singh was waiting in the middle of the trail.

CHAPTER EIGHT

SANUK SINGH was frowning, bewildered by the sudden frustration of his plans. He stood like a rock, attempting to peer through the jungle walls and discover the cause of the din. Then Black reached his side and said crisply:
"The torture clearing, old boy. Come on you're going with us."
The Sikh nodded. Obediently he fell in beside Black; and with the girl holding Black's arm, the three moved cautiously along the trail.
The shouts increased in volume. The gongs, rising out of their resonance, became fanatic. Black glanced curiously at Sanuk Singh to divine the Sikh's reaction to it; but the Sikh's face was immobile. No emotion was written there.
Then the scene broke upon him. They crouched in the opening of the trail, at the edge of the amphitheater, and watched it.
A double ring of Dyaks surrounded the stone slab, beating the ground with elbows and fists, swaying with the clamor of the gongs. Inside the ring, standing erect, Krinjalilaya faced them. Beside him, lashed prostrate to the slab of rock, lay another figure—a figure with staring, fearful face and dilated eyes. The victim was Geraux.
Above his head, the skull grinned down at him. Even higher above, the glaring sun burned down on the clearing. In a few moments more it would concentrate a tiny white fire-spot on the Frenchman's forehead, and the agony would begin.
The girl turned away, sickened by the sight of it. Black closed his eyes and would have retreated. But Sanuk Singh was leaning forward, watching every movement with his eyes fixed rigidly on the stone slab. And Sanuk Singh reached out to grip Black's wrist.
"Wait, sahib!"
"I've seen it before," Black said curtly.
"You   have   not  seen   this, sahib. Watch closely. I had intended to let them capture me, in order to  bring  them  all to this  place  for  my vengeance. Now they have taken another, but the result will be the same!"
Black stayed there, and watched. In the middle of the clearing, Krinjalilaya had lifted his head to look at the sun. Now his hand went up, to silence the gongs; and he began to speak in a shrill monotone. He talked on and on, seemingly without breath, and the Dyaks listened to him.
"What is he saying?" Jeanne whispered fearfully.
"Something to the effect that Geraux was discovered in one of the tabu trails, and must pay the utmost penalty."
"In a tabu trail?" "Yes."
The girl lapsed into, silence. Sanuk was still staring; but now the Sikh's attention was focused on the eye of the skull, waiting for the sunlight to flash on the bit of lens-glass that was stuck there.
A minute passed. Two minutes. Krinjalilaya stopped his harangue and turned to the slab. Another minute.
Then it happened.
The bit of glass flashed. For thirty seconds it glistened like a thing on fire. Then—not on the forehead of the victim; but on the ground beside, the sudden blinding flash of flame leaped out of the grass. White smoke shot up in a blinding cloud.
"You see, sahib," Sanuk Singh said softly, "I moved the lens—"
But Black was not listening. He was gaping at the scene before him.
A dozen tentacles of fire were sweeping across the clearing. It wasn't the grass that was burning; it was more than that. The tentacles were racing with uncanny speed toward the rim of the amphitheater, swirling smoke and flame as they went. Nothing but loose gunpowder could have burned with such swiftness!
The Dyaks turned, screaming their fear. Clawing each other, they raced for the safety of the jungle. Black watched them in fascination. Saw them plunge through the grass, fighting to avoid the burning fuses. Saw them pitch, stumble, crawl—and then Sanuk Singh's hand closed over his shoulder and yanked him backwards.
"Down, sahib!"
Instinctively Black flung himself to the ground, dragging the girl with him. Then, not twenty feet distant, a sullen blast tore up the floor of the clearing.
After that, Black's senses were cut to the quick by the girl's ringing scream. He heard voices—screeching in agony and terror—out there in the amphitheater. He heard stumbling, broken bodies clawing at each other, racing madly through the scorched grass. And above it came the flaming roar of a dozen separate explosions, quaking the ground flinging great lumps of turf into the air. Sometimes the things that went into the air were human shapes—or parts of human shapes.
For three minutes it lasted. Then the screams died into silence and the deafening intonations ceased. Black groped to his feet and stared out.

THERE was nothing left. The torture clearing had been ripped into shreds. Krinjalilaya's fiends, who had been squatting there waiting for a man's death agonies, were—still there. They would always be there, but never recognized.
And the rock in the center—the rock that had borne Geraux's prostrate body—was split into separate pieces, half-buried in the ground. The dead skull with its horrible powers of torture— grinned up in the place where the Frenchman's face had been.
"It is justice," Sanuk Singh said quietly."I stole the powder from Geraux's sampan. Now it has been returned to him—with interest."
Black nodded grimly. Taking the girl's hand, he said curtly:
"Let's get out of here."
There was no need to take the river trail now; Geraux's sampan was a better way, and safer. But Black was not thinking about safety as he picked his way across the devastated clearing and led his companions along the trail to the village.
"It is more than justice, sahib," Sanuk Singh shrugged."I placed the largest charge of powder under the torture slab, thinking I would be the victim. I did that so that I should die quickly without burning to death—but I arranged it so that I should be the last to die, after watching the others. Geraux was therefore the last to die."
Black made no, reply. It was the girl, walking beside him, who found a question to ask:
"They found Geraux in a tabu trail," she said quietly."Why was he there? Surely he knew the danger—"
"I sent him there." 
"You?"
"That is more justice; Jeanne. Think of your father, sitting alone in his room, studying the diamond he has just brought from Matamuri's shop. A piece—of paper and a pencil are lying on the table, in reach of his hand. The paper is Matamuri's letter."
Jeanne paced beside him, in silence.
"Your father picks up the pencil without thinking," Black shrugged."He begins to draw diagrams on the paper with it an old habit of his whenever he's preoccupied. Just by chance he writes the name Krinjalilaya, because that name happens to be on his mind at the moment. He draws diamonds for the same reason. The rest means nothing; it is just the whim of the pencil."
"I know," she said quietly."I know father's little habits, Carey."
Geraux's sampan was lying in the reeds, empty. Black waited until Sanuk Singh and the girl had climbed over the side; then shoving the clumsy boat clear of the reeds, he picked up one of the heavy poles. Sanuk Singh, moving to the bow, took hold of another.
Jeanne's hand fell on Black's arm.
"Geraux thought that the diagram on the paper was the secret he wanted, Carey?"
"He forced me to decipher it for him," Black said simply."There was nothing to decipher. One of the scrawls happened to look like the entrance to a tabu trail—and so I sent him there."
She sat down in the shade of the cabin, staring at the jungle. Black watched her quietly as he heaved on the pole and pushed the sampan out into the slow current of the river. Finally, putting the pole down he went to her side and stood over her.
"There's nothing to stop us bringing machinery up here now," he said. "Is there?"
"No, Carey."
"I've been thinking—somehow I don't want to come back alone. The mine belongs to you."
She looked up. Reaching out, she took hold of his hand and pulled him down beside her.
"We'll work it together," she suggested."All right?"
Sanuk Singh, wielding his pole in the bow of the boat, turned around and turned back again, grinning.
THE END