Chapter I: The Coming of Abu-Samar

James Battiscombe--district officer at Rembakut--emerged from the little courthouse that formed the ground floor of his bungalow, directed his monocle upon a group of natives that still lingered in the clearing, and, turning abruptly on his heel, negotiated the flight of steps that led to the verandah.

He sat down somewhat heavily and touched the bell.

“Bring me a drink--a long drink,” he said to the _boy_ who appeared in response to his summons.

At the sound of his voice Vera Battiscombe raised her head from the cushion upon which it had reposed.

“That you, Jim?”

The magistrate stretched himself and crossed the floor. He selected a portion of the wooden rail in the immediate vicinity of his wife’s chair and leaned his broad back against it.

“Well?” he inquired.

She raised her finely marked brows.

“Well?” she echoed. “Had a busy morning?”

Battiscombe groaned.

“A confounded, interminable land dispute. The worst of native witnesses is that they go such a devil of a long way round, and if you attempt to interrupt ’em they never come to the point at all. Lord! isn’t it hot!”

He mopped a large red face with a coloured handkerchief.

Vera had never been fearfully in love with James Battiscombe, but she simulated an intense interest in his affairs to suit her own ends. Her husband, on the contrary, still basked in the sunshine of fatuous contentment at having by some miraculous means persuaded so beautiful a creature to consent to share his existence. A devoted, uncomplaining mountain of flesh, normally content with the smallest of favours, he vaguely wondered why she stopped with him out there at all. These Borneo wilds, he was wont to reason, were good enough in their way where mere man was concerned, but for a woman--cultured and used to a lot of amusement, well, hang it all----! He was oblivious of his wife’s shortcomings to such an extent that his friends were constantly divided between an anxious desire to kick him and an equally anxious desire not to hurt his feelings--and consequently did nothing.

Whenever a particularly persistent rumour floated to Battiscombe’s ears he would shrug his shoulders and explain with wide-open eyes that anyway she was damn’ good to him, and, if he wasn’t complaining, what the devil had it got to do with anybody else?

“And his excellency the _Tuan-Hakim_ gave his learned decision, I suppose, and everybody went off very pleased with themselves?”

The magistrate laughed.

“Not the least bit like it. His excellency postponed the hearing of the case until to-morrow, thereby neglecting his duty in the interests of thirst.”

He took the glass from the _boy_ and winked broadly across it at his wife.

“Well, here’s all the best! Are not the waters of Abana and what’s-his-name greater than all the rivers of Israel, what?--Jove, I wanted that!--Then, old thing, to cap it all, I was forced into an unseemly dispute with a most extraordinary creature.” He drew a crumpled visiting card from his pocket and read: “‘Dr. Abu-Samar’--and a whole string of letters that I suppose stand for something or other.”

Mrs. Battiscombe squirmed herself into a sitting position and rested her chin on her hand.

“Dr. Abu-Samar!”

Her husband nodded.

“He pushed in just after I’d instructed Corporal Kuraman to clear the court, and insisted on seeing me.”

“What was he like?”

“Oh, a tall thin chap with a blue serge suit and a red _fez_, a brown face and an enormous pair of tortoise-shell spectacles. Apart from all this, he had an extremely unpleasant way of looking at one. Just a moment. I’ll ring the bell.”

Vera raised a hand.

“Not another one, dear! You know you don’t want it.”

Battiscombe grinned.

“I know I do!”

She shook her head.

“Not before lunch.”

He shrugged his shoulders and deposited the empty tumbler on a small bamboo table.

“Right-oh, little woman; suppose you know best. Anyhow, about this Abu-Samar feller; he told me that he was an expert in tropical diseases and intended offering his services to the neighbouring planters as such. I suggested that the planting syndicates were already fully equipped with medicoes and that the Chartered Company had a few others of its own knocking around looking after the general health of the community--when they weren’t playing golf.”

“And----?”

“And, oh, he didn’t seem to think any of ’em counted for very much. However, that’s his affair. He pitched the usual yarn of being the son of a chief somewhere way-back, gave me to understand that he had pots of money and had returned to his own country to reform the notions of his fellow blacks as to the treatment of sickness. He indulged in a long rigmarole about removing the film from their eyes and uplifting the coloured inhabitants of Borneo until they were fit to rub shoulders with the more cultured European, and somewhere about that point I began to smell a rat. I was confoundedly hot and thirsty and I just itched to boot the fellow into the clearing, when he capped everything with a cool request that I should put him up for membership of the club!”

A ripple of laughter escaped Mrs. Battiscombe.

“And then you _booted_ him!”

The magistrate set his jaw grimly.

“I booted him! I called upon the corporal first, but he didn’t seem especially anxious--so I carried out the operation myself. He sat down on the grass outside and became abusive and threatening. Began a long preamble commencing with the statement that knowledge was power and concluding with a veiled threat to employ his marvellous knowledge in wiping out the entire white population of the island. I fancy he was annoyed really because I tore his trousers.”

Vera slipped from her chair and joined him at the rail.

She leaned over, peering in all directions, but could discover nothing more unusual than a belt of mature cocopalms and a sky of infinite azure.

“What happened to him?” she demanded.

“He cleared out in the end, with a little boy in white holding an elaborate yellow umbrella over him and one hand wandering all round his neck to see if his collar was still there. I threatened to arrest him, and he ultimately realised that I meant it and was not at all impressed with either his letters or his wardrobe.”

“Quite an exciting morning!”

“Oh, quite! My blood was up--and I let him have it hot.”

Mrs. Battiscombe smiled.

“My cave-man!” she murmured, and patted his sleeve with a well-simulated affection that prompted the magistrate to squeeze her arm to indicate that in him also the fires of romance were not entirely burnt out.

He produced a cigarette and tapped it thoughtfully on his thumb-nail.

“I’m running into Jesselton this afternoon,” he remarked suddenly. “Coming?”

“No.”

He lit up and tossed the match into the clearing.

“Oh! why not?”

Mrs. Battiscombe coloured slightly.

“Because, my dear man, it happens to be Thursday, and you know I promised to ride over to Dick Moberly’s to inspect the new clubhouse he’s erected for his assistants. You’ve a terrible memory, Jim.”

“I must have, for to tell you the honest truth I can’t recall having ever heard that Moberly had built a clubhouse for his men or that he wanted you to inspect it.” A shadow crossed his face. “I say, Vera, aren’t you seeing rather a lot of Dick Moberly?”

“Jim!”

It was the first sign the proverbial worm had ever shown of turning, and--feeble as the effort was--it startled her.

“Well,” pursued the magistrate with dogged persistence, passing a nervous finger round the inside of his collar, “you are, aren’t you?”

She came right up to him and, resting her hands lightly on his tunic, gazed unflinchingly into his face.

“You’re not suggesting that there’s anything--_wrong_ between Dick and me?”

A light flashed suddenly in his eyes and died down as quickly as it had come.

“Good heavens, no! Only--well, people will keep talking. I suppose it’s because they’ve nothing else to do. If I’d listened to a tithe of the yarns that are going around about you, I’d have booked your passage home long ago. Perhaps it’s a good thing I don’t jump at conclusions.”

Vera Battiscombe suppressed a smile. She could not imagine her husband jumping at anything.

She stared hard at a cluster of scraggy fowls picking for sustenance in a scattered heap of straw.

“And what are they saying about us?” she demanded.

The magistrate cleared his throat.

“Oh, the usual things. Look here, Vera, don’t think I’m complaining, because I’m not; but try and vary things a bit; you know what I mean. People notice you; they can’t help it, because you’re so confoundedly good-looking. I didn’t tell you at the time--I didn’t think it was worth repeating--but over a week ago I overheard a scrap of conversation in Sandakan--and knocked a man down for his share in it.”

Vera’s head came sharply round, and if he had looked he would have seen that she was paler than usual.

“Well? What was it?”

“That you deliberately pushed in between Mrs. Moberly and Dick--and that that was why she went home so suddenly.”

Her eyes flashed.

“How wicked!”

“Damnable!--Another planter feller picked my man up. He was drunk, but he knew what he was saying: ‘I’m mighty sorry for you, old man, and if I were in your place I’d do the same; but if that’s your line of action you’ve got your work cut out. You’ll have to fight the whole island!’”

“He didn’t say that!”

The D.O. nodded his head slowly.

“He did, old thing. To the best of my belief, those were his exact words. Well, there you are, dear. I’ve given you the whole grim story for what it is worth. I suppose the average man would have rowed you about it; but I hate rows. It’s too hot, for one thing, and for another, I’m confident in my own mind that you wouldn’t let me down.”

The cook-boy appeared at a doorway.

“_Makan_ is served, _Tuan_,” he announced.

Battiscombe nodded in his direction to indicate that he had heard. He turned to find his wife the picture of injured innocence.

“I thought it was only women who talked scandal,” she declared with a fine air of contempt.

The magistrate did not trouble to defend his sex.

“Well, it isn’t, you see, and under the present circumstances it’s up to us to face facts. Cut down your visits to _Bukit-Serang_ to, say, once a month, and blow in occasionally upon some of those faded women who have possibly had a hand in setting these rumours in motion.”

She smiled feebly and spread out her hands.

“Must I?”

The magistrate patted her shoulder affectionately.

“It seems a rational sort of thing to do. Lord, Vera, if we could afford it, I’d clear right out of here.”

Mrs. Battiscombe started.

“And that wouldn’t be rational at all. Everyone would think we’d made things too hot for us and were afraid to stick to our guns.”

He held his head on one side.

“I’m not so certain about that. It’d show ’em, at least, that you didn’t care a rap for Moberly and would leave Borneo with me as readily as you came.”

“Would I?” she ventured.

Battiscombe slipped his arm round her and piloted her gently towards the living-room, laughing to himself all the while at what he imagined to be the finest joke he had heard for many a long day.