me. You sure you wasn't stringin' me?'
'Stringing? I don't know what stringing is.'
'Well, skip it. I seen funny looks pass between you and the grand duke when you was handing me that line about snakes. On the level now, kiddo, give me the low-down.'
'The low-down?'
'The facts—truth. What was it all about?'
'I am so afraid of him, Neal. Promise me that you won't tell him that I told you. I think of what he did to her; he would do the same to me; he said so.'
'What? He said he'd kill you?'
'If I told.'
'If you told what?'
'That he had tried to take that piece of coat sleeve away from me.'
'That was when you screamed?' he asked.
'Yes.'
'I'll get him for that,' said Brown.
'Please don't say anything about it; please promise me,' she begged. 'Only don't leave me alone with him again.'
'All right, then,' he promised; 'but if he ever makes another break like that, I'll sure get him. You needn't be afraid of him.'
'I am not afraid when you are with me. I do not know what I should do if it were not for you.'
'You like me a little, kid?'
'I like you a great deal, Neal.'
He pressed her closer to him. 'I guess I like you a lot, too—more than I ever liked anyone else.'
She nestled closer to him. 'Tell me how much that is,' she whispered.
'I'm not much good at saying things like that. I—I—well, you know what I mean.'
'I want to hear you say it.' He cleared his throat. 'Well—I love you, kid.'
'And you don't love Lady Greystoke?'
'Eh? What!' he exclaimed. 'What put that into your head?'
'He said so; he said that you loved her, and that she loved you.'
'The dirty rat! Imagine that dame, the wife of an English viscount, falling for me. That is to laugh.'
'But you might—what you call it—fall for her.'
'Not on your life, kid; not while I've got you.'
She put her arms around his neck and drew him down toward her. 'I love you, Neal,' she murmured, before their lips met.
They felt that they had the night and the world to themselves, but that was because they were not aware of the silent watcher in the tree above them. She sat with him until he awoke Sborov.
The camp was sleeping soundly when Tibbs finished his tour of duty at two in the morning and called Brown again.
At four Brown hesitated to awaken Annette, but he had given his word that she might stand guard for an hour; so he shook her gently.
'It's four o'clock and all's well,' he whispered. Then he kissed her ear. 'And now it's better.'
She raised herself to an elbow, laughing. 'Now you lie down and sleep,' she said, 'and I'll stand guard.'
'I'll sit along with you for awhile,' he said.
'No, that was not in the bargain,' she insisted. 'I want to watch alone. I shall feel very important. Go on, and go to sleep.'
Then quiet fell upon the camp—a quiet that was unbroken until Jane awoke after daylight. She sat up and looked about her. No one was on guard. Alexis, who should have been, was fast asleep.
'Come on, sleepy heads,' she cried; 'it's time to get up.'
Brown sat up sleepily and looked around. He saw Alexis just awakening.
'I thought the grand duke was on guard,' said Brown. 'Did you take his place?'
'There wasn't anyone on guard when I woke up,' said lane, and then she noticed. 'Where is Annette?'
Brown sprang to his feet. 'Annette!' he cried. There was no answer. Annette was gone.
Chapter 18 A Bit of Paper
WHEN morning broke, Nkima, had he been a man, would have said that he had not slept a wink all night; but that was because when he was awake he was so worried and frightened that the tune had dragged interminably. During the night, he regretted that he had not stayed with Tarzan and determined to return to the camp the first thing in the morning; but when morning came, dispelling the gloom with brilliant sunshine, his little monkey mind forgot its good resolution and concerned itself only with the moment and his new playmate.
Off they went, racing through the jungle, swinging from limb to limb, scampering high aloft, dropping again to lower levels.
Nkima was very happy. The sun was shining. It would always shine. He could not vision that another night of cold and dread was coming quickly.
Farther and farther toward the west they scampered, farther and farther away from camp; and in one hand Nkima clutched the little stick with the split end, topped by the soiled and crumpled envelope. Through all the playing and the love-making and the long night, little Nkima had clung to his sole treasure.
The little she, who was Nkima's playmate, was mischievous. She was also covetous. For long had she looked upon the stick and the envelope with envy, but she had been cuffed once for trying to take them; so she was wary, yet the more she saw them, the more she wished them.
Nkima was running along a branch holding the envelope on high. The little she was following in his wake when she saw her chance—just ahead, a limb beneath which Nkima would have to pass. Quickly she sprang upward and raced ahead along this limb; and, as Nkima passed beneath her, she reached down and seized the envelope. She was disappointed because she did not get the stick, too; but even a part of this wonderful thing was better than nothing.
Having achieved her design, she scampered on ahead as fast as she could go. Nkima witnessed the theft, and his heart was filled with righteous anger and indignation. He pursued her, but fear lent her a new speed.
On they raced; but the little she always seemed to have the advantage, for she steadily outdistanced Nkima until she was lost to his sight; and then his indignation and sorrow at the loss of his treasure was submerged in a fear that he had lost the little she also.
But he had not. He came upon her perched innocently in a high-flung crotch, contentedly eating a piece of fruit. As Nkima approached her, he looked for the envelope. It was gone. He wanted to pound her, but he also wanted to hug her; so he compromised by hugging her.
He asked for his bit of paper. Of course, he had no name for it; but he made her understand. It seemed that she had become frightened and thrown it away.
Nkima went back a little way to look for it, but he became interested in some fuzzy caterpillars that he passed on the way; and when he had eaten all that he could find, he had temporarily forgotten the paper.
A little river flowed beneath them. Rivers always intrigued Nkima. He liked to follow them; so he followed this one.
Presently he espied something that brought him to a sudden stop. In a small, natural clearing on the bank of the river was a flimsy man-made hut.
Nkima thought that there must be gomangani around; and he was wary, but he was also very curious. He watched and listened. The place seemed deserted. Finally he mustered sufficient courage to drop to the ground and investigate.
Followed by the little she, he crept toward the entrance to the hut. Cautiously he peeked around a corner of the door frame and peered within. There was no one there. Nkima entered. Luggage and clothing were strewn about the floor. He looked things over, seeking what he might appropriate. Then his eyes fell upon a piece of paper
