opened out from the main veranda, off one side of which was built the mosquito room. At the far end of the dining room were two folding doors that led to a passage and pantry, and thence down some steps to the kitchen and "boys'" quarters at the rear of the house.
As Dennis undressed he sleepily hummed the latest fox-trot record received from England. Then dimming the light he got into bed.
From where he lay he could hear Walkely moving about his room, and could see the reflection his light cast on the exposed attap (dried sago leaves) roof of the house. As he idly watched, speculating dreamily on Walley's success as a manager, Walkely's lamp in turn was lowered. Followed the creaking noise of a body turning on a spring mattress—then silence.
Dennis rolled from his left to right side preparatory to sleep.
"Nighty-night, Old Thing," he grunted.
"Night," came back the sleepy reply.
Then all was quiet save for the gentle rustling of the rubber trees and the occasional hoot of an owl.
Presently Dennis awoke to full alertness. He was not strung up; no sound nor fear nor nightmare had aroused him. He was simply and quietly awake. Turning on his side he looked at his watch. The hands pointed to 2 a. m. He closed his eyes, but sleep would not be wooed.
For a long time Dennis lay in the nearly darkened room, watching the waving branch of a rubber tree outside the window, that moved gently to the sighing of the breeze.
Suddenly he heard the sound of feet ascending the steps that led from garden to veranda doors.
But half awake, he listened.
Slowly the footsteps mounted the stairs; then came the lifting of the latch that fastened the low wooden gates, and the creaking of moving hinges. The footsteps entered, continued the full length of the veranda, to pass into the dining room beyond. Here for a moment they halted. Then they moved again, shuffling uncertainly—forward, backward, sideways—as those of a person trying to locate something in the dark.
Again they moved with steady tread and reached the intervening doors that shut off the passage.
Dennis listened and waited. What the devil was old Walley doing, he sleepily wondered.
A sudden rush of cool air struck on him over the top of the bedroom wall, billowing out his mosquito net.
Creak—creak—creak—the doors were opening. The footsteps went along the passage and came to a standstill at the end.
"Boy."
The call was clear and decisive, but Dennis failed to quite recognize the voice, though he realized it was an European's.
There came no answer.
"Boy!"
This time the call was sharper, and impatience was in its tone. Still no reply.
In the silence Dennis, wondering greatly, waited, for he was still uncertain whether the voice was Walkely's or another's.
The footsteps sounded again as they descended the stairs that led to the servants' quarters. On the bottom step they halted.
"Boy!"
The call was long, loud and angry. Yet still no answer came.
Up the stairs the footsteps returned. They strode along the passage, paused as the doors were closed and the latch clicked, then swiftly moved through the dining room out
