easy to pass certain gates in the East without hearing tell of the Rajah
Brooke."

For a while he sat nursing his knee while I filled and lit a pipe.
Then he turned abruptly, and over the flame of the match I saw his eyes,
the pupils clouded around the iris and, as it were, withdrawn inward and
away from the world. "Ever heard of Cagayan Sulu?" he asked.

"Never," said I. "Who or what is it?"

"It's an island," said he. "It lies a matter of eighty miles off the
north-east corner of Borneo--facing Sandakan, as you might say."

"Who owns it?"

He seemed to be considering the question. "Well," he answered slowly,
"if you asked the Spanish Government I suppose they'd tell you the King
of Spain; but that's a lie. If you asked the natives--the Hadji Hamid,
for instance--you'd be told it belonged to them; and that's half a lie.
And if you asked the Father of Lies he might tell you the truth and call
me for witness. I lost two fingers there--the only English flesh ever
buried in those parts--so I've bought my knowledge."

"How did you come there?" I asked,--"if it's a fair question."

He chuckled without mirth. "As it happens, that's _not_ a fair
question. But I'll tell you this much, I came there with a brass band."

I began to think the man out of his mind.