"I have got a roving commission, Petrie, and it doesn't rest
with me where I am to-day nor where I shall be to-morrow."

There was something ominous in the words, and, putting down my glass,
its contents untasted, I faced round and looked him squarely in the eyes.
"Out with it!" I said. "What is it all about?"

Smith suddenly stood up and stripped off his coat.
Rolling back his left shirt-sleeve he revealed a wicked-looking
wound in the fleshy part of the forearm. It was quite healed,
but curiously striated for an inch or so around.

"Ever seen one like it?" he asked.

"Not exactly," I confessed. "It appears to have been deeply cauterized."

"Right! Very deeply!" he rapped. "A barb steeped in the venom
of a hamadryad went in there!"

A shudder I could not repress ran coldly through me at mention
of that most deadly of all the reptiles of the East.

"There's only one treatment," he continued, rolling his sleeve down again,
"and that's with a sharp knife, a match, and a broken cartridge.
I lay on my back, raving, for three days afterwards, in a forest that stank
with malaria, but I should have been lying there now if I had hesitated.
Here's the point. It was not an accident!"

"What do you mean?"