For an hour Jesse Hagan, Jabez Ford and Daniel Sweetland spoke in secret together. Then the overseer mounted his horse and departed, while Daniel and the Obi Man remained.

The result of this curious conference will appear. Suffice it that for many a long month no man ever saw Daniel’s face again. Meantime Mr Ford resumed his attendance on Sir Reginald Vivian’s son, who continued to enjoy the generous hospitality of Tobago. Hue and cry for Daniel Sweetland quite failed to find him, or any sign of him. No trace of the sailor rewarded a close and systematic search. It was supposed that he had eluded all eyes, risked the sharks, and either perished or succeeded in swimming back to his ship on the night before she sailed. But the crew knew differently. To the deep regret of James Bradley and the rest of his mates, Daniel returned to the Peabody no more. To wait for him could not be thought of. A black man was, therefore, shipped in Sweetland’s stead, and the old steamer, with a small cargo of cocoanuts and turtle, sailed to Barbados. Dan from his hiding-place saw her depart unmoved, for he knew not the awful fate that would soon overtake his friends. Great issues had now opened in his own life, and extreme hazards awaited him.

A fortnight passed, and the afternoon of Henry Vivian’s visit to the Obi Man arrived. This event had been reserved for his last holiday in Tobago. In two days’ time a Royal Mail Packet would leave the island, and by it the visitor designed to return to Barbados, that he might pick up the next vessel that sailed for home.

While he packed his cabin trunks young Vivian reviewed the events of recent weeks, and thought, not without regret, of much that had happened. The pursuit of Sweetland had caused him deep sorrow. He forgave Dan his ducking, and only mourned that his own sense of duty had made it necessary to try and secure the escaped prisoner. He would have given much to know what had become of the fugitive, and hoped against his conscience that Daniel was safe in the Peabody. But the young man did not doubt that Sweetland had been guilty, for evidence of his crime seemed overwhelming, and the final fact that he had escaped from justice showed too certainly how the poacher had feared it. The circumstance of Jabez Ford’s dishonesty was also material for unquiet reflections. Mr Ford acquitted himself as an ideal host, and every instinct of the guest rebelled and hurt him for the part that he must play. Vivian felt himself guilty of treachery, and it was only by keeping the truth concerning Jabez Ford resolutely in sight that he could view his courtesy, good nature, and hospitality with an easy mind. That Ford had robbed his father Henry Vivian could not question; yet he blamed himself for being so silent. He felt that he had done better and more bravely to declare his doubts and charge the other openly. Then he reminded himself that he had actually done so, that he had expressed frank dissatisfaction on many occasions, and that Jabez Ford, with imperturbable good humour, had listened to his strictures, regretted his opinions, and assured him of his mistakes. At least Vivian determined that he would not leave the overseer in any uncertainty. He had failed to find a trustworthy and experienced man to take Ford’s place in Tobago; but he doubted not that such a man might be forthcoming at Barbados. Letters would reach him there from his father, and those letters Henry believed would grant him powers to dismiss Jabez Ford and appoint another overseer. He might, indeed, have to return to Tobago before leaving the West Indies. At anyrate, on the following day Ford was to lunch with Vivian on shipboard before the steamer sailed, and then Henry determined that the overseer should hear the truth, in order that he might make preparations for his departure from the Pelican Estate.

While the traveller thus decided, Jabez Ford was engaged upon a communication to Sir Reginald; and it was this letter, and not his employer’s son, that the overseer intended should travel homeward in two days’ time.

The fireflies danced across the velvet darkness of night; strange sounds of frogs echoed in the marshes, and sheet lightning sometimes outlined the dark heads of the palms as Jabez wrote. Now he sipped his grog; now he turned his cigar in his mouth; now he listened to the footfall of his guest on the floor above. Vivian was whistling “Widecombe Fair.” Already he wearied of the tropics and began to yearn for a sight of home.

Mr Jabez Ford tapped away at his typewriter and described with many an artistic and graphic touch events that had not yet happened. He told how Henry Vivian accompanied him to the abode of the old negro, Jesse Hagan; how, after inspecting the Obi Man’s mysteries, the visitor had ridden off alone to return to the Pelican Sugar Estate; how he had not come back, and how, protracted search being made, his clothes were discovered upon the seashore, while a single row of naked footprints were also observed leading from them to the sea. He added that young Vivian’s custom was to bathe twice daily, and that on more than one occasion, disregarding warnings, he had swum in the open water instead of behind the protections of the regular bathing-place. Mr Ford left it to the sorrowing father to guess what must have happened in those shark-haunted waters. He concluded with haste to catch the mail. He promised to write again as soon as possible, and to send a message by cable if any hopeful news might be despatched.

Then, well pleased with the effort, he slept, and presently woke again refreshed to make his story good.

Soon after noon Vivian and the overseer rode together by the steep forest path to Jesse’s lofty haunt, and the Obi Man in expectation prepared himself. Daniel Sweetland had vanished. Only an attendant negro waited on the master of the mysteries. All being arranged to Jesse’s satisfaction, the ancient man disappeared into an inner sanctum behind a curtain, and there completed his own horrible toilet. Upon his head he placed a fur cap with long black horns sprouting out of it, and over his lean carcase he drew hairy garments daubed with white and scarlet paint. These things were girt about his waist with a belt of feathers of the king-bird—a tropic fowl of gorgeous plumage. His arms remained bare, but to his wrists and ankles he fastened strips of lizard skin and hung bracelets of rattling seeds. About his neck he placed a chain of human teeth, and upon his breast for a loathsome amulet, the shrivelled-up mummy of a monkey hung. He next painted sundry blue hieroglyphics over his wrinkled face, and then gazed with unqualified pleasure at the general effect seen in a scrap of looking-glass.

“Obi somebody dis day!” said Jesse as he marched out into the daylight; and if he looked unearthly in the gloom of his own den, the display in full blaze of sunshine was still more terrific. He pranced hither and thither for his servant’s benefit. He jingled and clashed and flamed. His fantastic adornments glittered in the light; strange treasures, unseen until now, appeared amongst his accoutrements. A brass-bound Bible hung round his neck with a big jack-knife; upon his knees a pair of old naval epaulettes were fastened. The ghastly thing on his breast had yellow beads stuck into its head for eyes, and now they flashed with a sort of life, whilst its little mummied arms clung about Jesse and seemed to hug him.

The attendant eyed him without awe or admiration. Jacky, as he was called, lacked some of his senses and never spoke. Then, while Jesse capered about like a monkey, down in the hot haze of the distance amid trees and rocks, the old monster suddenly saw a cavalcade struggling up the hill. Two horsemen were approaching.

Now the Obi Man retired again to complete very special and secret preparations for the hope of the house of Vivian. He withdrew behind the curtain, stooped low in his secret corner, and drew forth a box from beneath much rubbish that covered it. Next he lighted a candle, opened the box and from it took a smaller one. This contained a grey, sticky matter, like bird-lime. Digging out some of the stuff upon the point of a wooden skewer, Jesse, with his thumb, held back the flesh of his middle right-hand finger, and, under the nail, deposited the compound from the box. He plastered it there, and since all his nails were long and dirty, the presence of this strange ointment was not likely to attract attention. He hid the box again, blew out his candle, and, returning to the air, went forward to meet his company.

The horsemen arrived and drew up before Jesse’s gate as he leapt forward and bowed low, while his finery made savage music.

“By Jove! we’re lucky!” exclaimed Jabez. “I told you that you should see an Obi doctor, but I never thought he would have all his war-paint on!”

“Tell him to get further off,” answered Vivian. “My horse is growing restive.”

“Gib you berry good day, Massa Ford; and you too, sar!” cried Jesse, bowing again and again. “Poor ole man Hagan, he berry pleased to see gem’men.”

“This is Mr Vivian, Jesse,” explained the overseer. “His father is Sir Reginald Vivian—the great man who owns the Pelican Estate.”

Jesse saluted respectfully.

“I proud nigger dis day. Wonderful esteats—wonderful sugar esteats, massa. No canes like de canes on Pelican land. Come in, gem’men. Jacky hold your hosses and make dem fast. I’se proud to see two such gem’men in dis place.”

Ford made signs to the negro, but did not speak. Then he turned to Henry Vivian.

“That’s old Jesse’s son,” he explained. “A rare fine nigger—full-blooded and strong as a horse. But he’s deaf and dumb—poor devil!—though he’s got all his other wits about him.”

Jacky made fast the horses and brought them a pail of water. Then Ford and the guest entered Mr Hagan’s hut, and Jesse followed them. He bustled about and fetched a basket of fruit from the garden. Next he produced a bottle of rum and drew the cork with his teeth.

Henry Vivian stared and showed a very genuine interest in the strange scene around him. Mr Ford sat on a barrel in a corner and smoked his cigar.

“You’ve got to thank old Jesse here for more than you know,” he declared. “He’s been worth pounds and pounds to the Pelican; and though I can’t show the profits that I’d like to show you, and hope to show you soon, yet but for this old wonder here, the figures would be far worse than they are. Two years ago a tremendous lot of sugar-cane was stolen from our plantation. The black thieves came by night—”

“He-he-he! Black tiefs come by night!” echoed Jesse.

“And took tons of the stuff. I placed the matter in the hands of the police; but it’s not much good setting a nigger to catch a nigger as a rule. The officers did no good; then I tried the parson. But he was powerless too. So I came to Jesse, and he stopped the rascals in no time.”

“Jesse stop de rascals in no time,” said the old negro.

“He put your father’s lands under Obeah, Mr Vivian. That doesn’t mean much to you; but we West Indians understand. All rubbish and nonsense really, perhaps, though I won’t allow that myself. At anyrate, Obeah is a terrible thing to Ethiopian ears. Some survival and fragment of their ancient, infernal religion of witchcraft and unimaginable devilries. There’s something in it, I believe—what, I cannot say. Our friend here is one of the last of the Obi Men, and he threw his spell over the sugar canes—hung up red rags and empty bottles on the skirts of the plantation—uttered some mumbo-jumbo spell in the ears of the frightened people and departed. It was enough. Devil another stick went.”

“Debble anudder stick go! He-he!” sniggered Jesse.

“We ought to be greatly obliged,” confessed Henry Vivian. “This has been a most interesting experience, and I hope you’ll accept an English sovereign from me in the name of my father, old man. Be sure I’ll tell him of your exploits and all that he owes to you.”

“Gold—me like gold berry much,” declared Jesse. He took the money greedily and slipped it into a pocket at his belt. “Massa King ob England on it—good!” he said.

“And now I’ll depart, if you please, Ford,” continued young Vivian. “I’m glad to have had this most interesting experience, but I can’t stand the place any longer. The uncanny odours are choking me.”

“Smoke then. We can’t go immediately. The old boy would never forgive us. I’ll be off as soon as I dare.”

He turned to Jesse.

“Seen any turtle lately?”

“Plenty turtle, sar. I take my walks on moony nights and see de great cock turtle making a fuss and de ladies laying dar eggs in de sand. Berry good soup—but Jesse like rum better. It work quicker. You gem’men shall taste Jesse’s rum punch. Nobody make rum punch like me, massa.”

He made signs to Jacky, and the silent negro, who stood at the door, drew three calabash shells from a corner and took them out to wash them.

“He my son, massa,” explained old Hagan. “Him no speak or hear. Him tongue tied by de Lord. But him understand berry quick. Him understand like a dog, sar. Him know tings dat we no know, for all dat we have ears and tongues.”

Vivian nodded dreamily and puffed his cigar. The vile atmosphere of the hut and Jesse’s voice that ran on ceaselessly began together to hypnotise him. He felt sleepy.

“How much more of it?” he asked Ford, and the other answered—

“Not five minutes. The drink is ready. We will wish him good luck and long life. Then we will clear out. His rum punch is really worth drinking. I know nothing like it.”

Meantime Jacky had rinsed out his three split calabash bowls and now placed them on the table in a row.

“Dis Obi punch I make for you, sar. Nobody make him but Jesse!” declared the host. Then he poured his concoction into the three bowls and, when he had emptied a large open pan, about half a pint of liquor filled each calabash.

“Drink and remember de poor old Obi Man, sars! Dar’s yours, Massa Ford, and dar’s yours, Massa Vivian; and dis am mine. Jacky and me will share and share togedder.”

He handed the calabashes to his son and a close observer might have noted that into one bowl of refreshment—that intended for Henry Vivian—Jesse dipped the long, bony middle finger of his right hand.

A moment later Jabez Ford lifted his drink and pledged the giver.

“Here’s to you, old fellow, and may your shadow never grow less. Good luck and long life to all of us!”

He drank heartily, smacked his lips, and set his empty bowl upon the table, while Vivian followed his example and drained his drink also.

“Splendid—splendid!” he said. “I’ll give you another sovereign for the secret of that!”

Jesse looked at the doomed man with his toad’s eyes.

“I fraid de secret no good whar you gwaine, massa. You dead gem’man, sar. Nuffing on God earf save you now. Five minutes more and we take off your tings and put you under Jesse’s snake-gourd, sar.”

“What the deuce is he talking about?” began Vivian. Then his jaw fell and he stared at the face of Jabez Ford. Behind them stood Jacky, and in front, on the other side of the table, the Obi Man quietly sipped his rum punch and waited.

But now a thing unforeseen occurred, and the awful, inevitable death that had been mixed with Henry Vivian’s cup fell upon another.

Jabez Ford it was who leapt to his feet, cried a hoarse oath and turned upon the negro behind him.

“Treachery—you—you—!” he began. Then he fell in a heap on the floor, twisted horribly like a snake, while his hands and feet beat the earth.

“Air—air—my God—life!” he cried, and at the same moment with a wild yell the Obi Man leapt forward and hurled himself at his son’s throat. But the younger negro was ready, and in his grasp the old man’s strength availed nothing. In a moment Mr Hagan was forced to the earth and Jacky, with a rope in readiness, had bound him hand and foot. His finery fell from Jesse while he shrieked and struggled and cursed. Then he sank into silence and watched Jabez Ford die.

Vivian, believing himself in some appalling nightmare, glared upon this scene; and its unreality and horror seemed increased to a climax worse than the sudden death of the overseer when the dumb negro turned upon him and spoke.

“Come!” said the man. “Come out of this! The horses are waiting. I’ll tell you what’s to tell, but not here with that mad old devil screeching in our ears and t’other glaring there with death gripping his throat. Come, Henry Vivian, an’ give heed to the man who has saved your life at the cost of this twisted clay here. Like him would you have been this minute but for me. ’Tis now your turn to be merciful.”

“Dan! Dan Sweetland!”

“So I be then—at your service. Come. No more till we’m out o’ sight of this gashly jakes. Let that old rip bide where he be for the present. Us can come backalong for him after dark, or to-morrow.”

A few moments later Sweetland, still disguised as a negro, mounted the dead man’s horse, and he and his old companion rode away together.