The crimson butterfly

James Battiscombe--district officer at Rembakut--emerged from the little courthouse that formed the ground floor of his bungalow, directed his monocle upon a group of natives that still lingered in the clearing, and, turning abruptly on his heel, negotiated the flight of steps that led to the verandah.

He sat down somewhat heavily and touched the bell.

“Bring me a drink--a long drink,” he said to the boy who appeared in response to his summons.

At the sound of his voice Vera Battiscombe raised her head from the cushion upon which it had reposed.

“That you, Jim?”

The magistrate stretched himself and crossed the floor. He selected a portion of the wooden rail in the immediate vicinity of his wife’s chair and leaned his broad back against it.

“Well?” he inquired.

She raised her finely marked brows.

“Well?” she echoed. “Had a busy morning?”

Battiscombe groaned.

“A confounded, interminable land dispute. The worst of native witnesses is that they go such a devil of a long way round, and if you attempt to interrupt ’em they never come to the point at all. Lord! isn’t it hot!”

He mopped a large red face with a coloured handkerchief.

Vera had never been fearfully in love with James Battiscombe, but she simulated an intense interest in his affairs to suit her own ends. Her husband, on the contrary, still basked in the sunshine of fatuous contentment at having by some miraculous means persuaded so beautiful a creature to consent to share his existence. A devoted, uncomplaining mountain of flesh, normally content with the smallest of favours, he vaguely wondered why she stopped with him out there at all. These Borneo wilds, he was wont to reason, were good enough in their way where mere man was concerned, but for a woman--cultured and used to a lot of amusement, well, hang it all----! He was oblivious of his wife’s shortcomings to such an extent that his friends were constantly divided between an anxious desire to kick him and an equally anxious desire not to hurt his feelings--and consequently did nothing.

Whenever a particularly persistent rumour floated to Battiscombe’s ears he would shrug his shoulders and explain with wide-open eyes that anyway she was damn’ good to him, and, if he wasn’t complaining, what the devil had it got to do with anybody else?

“And his excellency the Tuan-Hakim gave his learned decision, I suppose, and everybody went off very pleased with themselves?”

The magistrate laughed.

“Not the least bit like it. His excellency postponed the hearing of the case until to-morrow, thereby neglecting his duty in the interests of thirst.”

He took the glass from the boy and winked broadly across it at his wife.

“Well, here’s all the best! Are not the waters of Abana and what’s-his-name greater than all the rivers of Israel, what?--Jove, I wanted that!--Then, old thing, to cap it all, I was forced into an unseemly dispute with a most extraordinary creature.” He drew a crumpled visiting card from his pocket and read: “‘Dr. Abu-Samar’--and a whole string of letters that I suppose stand for something or other.”

Mrs. Battiscombe squirmed herself into a sitting position and rested her chin on her hand.

“Dr. Abu-Samar!”

Her husband nodded.

“He pushed in just after I’d instructed Corporal Kuraman to clear the court, and insisted on seeing me.”

“What was he like?”