and kill him afterward, than kill him first and then question him.

So he had Lieutenant Albert Werper carried to his own tent, and
there slaves administered wine and food in small quantities until
at last the prisoner regained consciousness. As he opened his eyes
he saw the faces of strange black men about him, and just outside
the tent the figure of an Arab. Nowhere was the uniform of his
soldiers to be seen.

The Arab turned and seeing the open eyes of the prisoner upon him,
entered the tent.

"I am Achmet Zek," he announced. "Who are you, and what were you
doing in my country? Where are your soldiers?"

Achmet Zek! Werper's eyes went wide, and his heart sank. He was
in the clutches of the most notorious of cut-throats--a hater of
all Europeans, especially those who wore the uniform of Belgium.
For years the military forces of Belgian Congo had waged a fruitless
war upon this man and his followers--a war in which quarter had
never been asked nor expected by either side.

But presently in the very hatred of the man for Belgians, Werper
saw a faint ray of hope for himself. He, too, was an outcast and
an outlaw. So far, at least, they possessed a common interest,
and Werper decided to play upon it for all that it might yield.

"I have heard of you," he replied, "and was searching for you.
My people have turned against me. I hate them. Even now their
soldiers are searching for me, to kill me. I knew that you would