"I don't know, I'm sure. There was a German named Schillingschen, who
spent a month in Zanzibar and talked a lot with Tippoo Tib. The old
rascal might tell his secret to any one he thought was England's really
dangerous enemy. Schillingschen crossed over to British East if I
remember rightly. He might be on the track of it."

"Tell us more about Schillingschen," said Monty.

"He's one of those orientalists, who profess to know more about Islam
than Christianity--more about Africa and Arabia than Europe--more about
the occult than what's in the open. A man with a shovel
beard--stout--thick-set--talks Kiswahili and Arabic and half a dozen
other languages better than the natives do themselves. Has
money--outfit like a prince's--everything
imaginable--Rifles--microscopes--cigars--wine. He didn't make himself
agreeable here--except to the Arabs. Didn't call at the Residency.
Some of us asked him to dinner one evening, but he pleaded a headache.
We were glad, because afterward we saw him eat at the hotel--has ways
of using his fingers at table, picked up I suppose from the people he
has lived among."

"Are you nearly ready to let us out of here?" asked Monty.

"Your quarantine's up," said the doctor. "I'm only waiting for word
from the office."

We drank three rounds of cocktails with him, after which he grew darkly
friendly and proposed we should all set out together in search of the
hoard.