Chapter I

“_Shall we count offences or coin excuses,_ _Or weigh with scales the soul of a man?_”

Dr. Atherley’s bungalow was the resort of British officials who passed through Duke Town on their way to and from various posts in West Africa. It was an ugly, hygienic structure of corrugated iron situated on the more civilized side of the Calabar River, facing an expanse of sullen, slow-flowing water on the far bank of which was an endless stretch of mangrove and pandanus swamp.

One day when Atherley returned home from a round of duties at the military hospital, on his veranda he found an acquaintance--an officer from up-country.

“Hello, Fletcher, have you caught your Hyena yet?” he said by way of greeting.

The question brought a look of mingled chagrin and regret to Captain Lindsay Fletcher’s sun-bitten face. The “Hyena” was a mysterious negro sultan, a notorious raider, so-called because of his tribal cry; and for some years the captain had been trying to run him to earth.

“I haven’t,” he replied, “but he’s caught and tortured to death another of my juniors, young Dennis.”

Atherley poured out a dose of whiskey from a bottle standing on a table near.

“That nigger is the very devil,” he remarked.

“I’d give ten years of my life to catch him,” Fletcher said fervently.

“Have you ever thought of looking for him in unlikely places?”

“I’ve looked into every hole and corner of my various districts.”

“Why not spread your net a little farther?”

Captain Fletcher was lying at his ease on a long cane lounge. The doctor’s question made him sit up smartly.

“Have you heard anything?” he questioned quickly.

“Not a thing! But your Hyena interests me. He seems to me a bit too clever to be wholly a product of the wilds. There’s a nigger in this town whose record isn’t any too healthy. It struck me it might be worth your while to probe into his intimate affairs.”

Although Duke Town was hundreds of miles away from the scenes of the mysterious negro chieftain’s raids and massacres, Fletcher did not scoff at his friend’s suggestions.

“Who’s your suspect?” he asked, all attention.

Atherley settled his shriveled, sun-dried self in a long chair.

“His name is Essel Lebrassa. He’s a mulatto. Senior--”

“I always said there was more than a nigger’s brain behind the Hyena’s tactics,” Fletcher interrupted.

“Not so fast. I’m not accusing Lebrassa. I’m only saying--”

“Oh, cut out the preaching and give me full particulars,” Fletcher said with open impatience.

“This Essel Lebrassa is a better educated man than any one here present. He’s the senior partner of the firm of Lebrassa and Cooper. Cooper, by the way, is coal black. They’re enormously wealthy, both of them. Lebrassa holds all sorts of weird, wild orgies in that villa of his on the hill here. And he has a whole harem of colored mistresses. What’s more, he hates a white skin like poison.”

By now Fletcher was weighing facts carefully.

“But none of that points to his having any connection with the fiend who periodically raids our up-country districts,” he said in a despondent manner.

“I’m getting there,” Atherley replied.

He took a sip of whiskey.

“Occasionally this Lebrassa disappears for months on end,” he continued. “Presumably he goes to Europe or America. But I heard from Harding that this buck nigger, who was supposed to be in England last year, joined the outward bound steamer not in Liverpool, but in Lagos! And last year the Hyena was busy in your district.”

“I should rather think he was!” Fletcher said feelingly. “Massacred half my _Hausas_, not to mention poor Dennis, and raided and burned a score of my villages. But this Lagos incident doesn’t prove anything. Lebrassa may have come out by some previous boat and got off there on business.”

“He may have,” Atherley agreed. “But that little fact made me look into things. And it seems queer that _all_ Lebrassa’s absences coincide with the times when the Hyena gets busy. Anyhow, he left here last week, presumably for England, even mentioning the town he was bound for--Harrogate. As you’re going home by the next steamer, it might be worth your while to see if Lebrassa really is there as reported.”

“What’s he like?” Fletcher asked.

“A big chap. Bigger than you, and that’s saying something. Age, about forty. Not so bad-looking, either, even according to European standards.”

These remarks left Fletcher thoughtful.

“The description tallies,” he said at length, “except that the Hyena is black as soot, but dye could turn a brown skin ebony. And considering he’s been a thorn in the flesh of three governments for twenty years, he can’t be altogether a chicken.”

“Exactly. That’s why I mentioned this Essel Lebrassa to you. With no clue at all as to who and what the Hyena really is, or where he comes from, the merest suspicion is worth following.”

“It certainly makes it worth my while looking in at Harrogate. And if Lebrassa isn’t there. Well--”

Fletcher broke off, and lapsed into thoughtful silence.