They all looked at one another. Their relief had grown too poignant for words.

"Early start to-morrow," Quest reminded them.

"Home and bed for me, this moment," Laura declared.

"The camels," the Professor assented, "will be round at daybreak."

Lenora, a few nights later, looked down from the star-strewn sky which seemed suddenly to have dropped so much nearer to them, to the shadows thrown across the desert by the dancing flames of their fire.

"It is the same world, I suppose," she murmured.

"A queer little place out of the same world," Quest agreed. "Listen to those fellows, how they chatter!"

The camel drivers and guides were sitting together in a little group, some distance away. They had finished their supper and were chattering together now, swaying back and forth, two of them at least in a state of wild excitement.

"Whatever can they be talking about?" Laura asked. "They sound as though they were going to fight every second."

The Professor smiled.

"The last one was talking about the beauty of his fat lady friend," he remarked drily. "Just before, they were discussing whether they would be given any backsheesh in addition to their pay. We are quite off the ordinary routes here, and these fellows aren't much used to Europeans."

Laura rose to her feet.

"I'm going to get a drink," she announced.

The dragoman, who had been hovering around, bowed gravely and pointed towards the waterbottles. Lenora also rose.

"I'm coming too," she decided. "It seems a sin to think of going to sleep, though. The whole place is like a great silent sea. I suppose this isn't a dream, is it, Laura?"

"There's no dream about my thirst, any way," Laura declared.

She took the horn cup from the dragoman.

"Have some yourself, if you want to, Hassan," she invited.

Hassan bowed gravely, filled a cup and drank it off. He stood for a moment perfectly still, as though something were coming over him which he failed to understand. Then his lips parted, his eyes for a moment seemed to shoot from out of his dusky skin. He threw up his arms and fell over on his side. Laura, who had only sipped her cup, threw it from her. She, too, reeled for a moment. The Professor and Quest came running up, attracted by Lenora's shriek.

"They're poisoned!" she cried.

"The Veedemzoo!" Quest shouted. "My God! Pull yourself together, Laura. Hold up for a minute."

He dashed back to their little encampment and reappeared almost immediately. He threw Laura's head back and forced some liquid down her throat.

"It's camphor," he cried. "You'll be all right, Laura. Hold on to yourself."

He swung round to where the dragoman was lying, forced his mouth open, but it was too late—the man was dead. He returned to Laura. She stumbled to her feet. She was pale, and drops of perspiration were standing on her forehead. She was able to rise to her feet, however, without assistance.

"I am all right now," she declared.

Quest felt her pulse and her forehead. They moved back to the fire.

"We are within a dozen miles or so of the Mongar village," Quest said grimly. "Do you suppose that fellow could have been watching?"

They all talked together for a time in low voices. The Professor was inclined to scout the theory of Craig having approached them.

"You must remember," he pointed out, "that the Mongars hate these fellows. It was part of my arrangement with Hassan that they should leave us when we got in sight of the Mongar Encampment. It may have been meant for Hassan. The Mongars hate the dragomen who bring tourists in this direction at all."

They talked a little while longer and finally stole away to their tents to sleep. Outside, the camel drivers talked still, chattering away, walking now and then around Hassan's body in solemn procession. Finally, one of them who seemed to have taken the lead, broke into an impassioned stream of words. The others listened. When he had finished, there was a low murmur of fierce approval. Silent-footed, as though shod in velvet, they ran to the tethered camels, stacked the provisions once more upon their backs, lashed the guns across their own shoulders. Soon they stole away—a long, ghostly procession—into the night.

"Those fellows seem to have left off their infernal chattering all of a sudden," Quest remarked lazily from inside the tent.

The Professor made no answer. He was asleep.



CHAPTER XII

A DESERT VENGEANCE

1.

Quest was the first the next morning to open his eyes, to grope his way through the tent opening and stand for a moment alone, watching the alabaster skies. Away eastwards, the faint curve of the blood-red sun seemed to be rising out of the limitless sea of sand. The light around him was pearly, almost opalescent, fading eastwards into pink. The shadows had passed away. Though the sands were still hot beneath his feet, the silent air was deliciously cool. He turned lazily around, meaning to summon the Arab who had volunteered to take Hassan's place. His arms—he had been in the act of stretching—fell to his sides. He stared incredulously at the spot where the camels had been tethered. There were no camels, no drivers, no Arabs. There was not a soul nor an object in sight except the stark body of Hassan, which they had dragged half out of sight behind a slight knoll. High up in the sky above were two little black specks, wheeling lower and lower. Quest shivered as he suddenly realised that for the first time in his life he was looking upon the winged ghouls of the desert. Lower and lower they came. He turned away with a shiver.

The Professor was still sleeping when Quest re-entered the tent. He woke him up and beckoned him to come outside.

"Dear me!" the former exclaimed genially, as he adjusted his glasses, "I am not sure that my toilet—however, the young ladies, I imagine, are not yet astir. You did well to call me, Quest. This is the rose dawn of Egypt. I have watched it from solitudes such as you have never dreamed of. After all, we are here scarcely past the outskirts of civilisation."

"You'll find we are far enough!" Quest remarked grimly. "What do you make of this, Professor?"

He pointed to the little sandy knoll with its sparse covering of grass, deserted—with scarcely a sign, even, that it had been the resting place of the caravan. The Professor gave vent to a little exclamation.

"Our guides!" he demanded. "And the camels! What has become of them?"

"I woke you up to ask you that question?" Quest replied, "but I guess it's pretty obvious. We might have saved the money we gave for those rifles in Port Said."

The Professor hurried off towards the spot where the encampment had been made. Suddenly he stood still and pointed with his finger. In the clearer, almost crystalline light of the coming day, they saw the track of the camels in one long, unbroken line stretching away northwards.

"No river near, where they could have gone to water the camels, or anything of that sort, I suppose?" Quest asked.

The Professor smiled.

"Nothing nearer than a little stream you may have heard of in the days when you studied geography," he observed derisively,—"the Nile. I never liked the look of those fellows, Quest. They sat and talked and crooned together after Hassan's death. I felt that they were up to some mischief."

He glanced around a little helplessly. Quest took a cigar from his case, and lit it.

"To think that an old campaigner like I am," the Professor continued, in a tone of abasement, "should be placed in a position like this! There have been times when for weeks together I have slept literally with my finger upon the trigger of my rifle, when I have laid warning traps in case the natives tried to desert in the night. I have even had our pack ponies hobbled. I have learnt the secret of no end of devices. And here, with a shifty lot of Arabs picked up in the slums of Port Said, and Hassan, the dragoman, dying in that mysterious fashion, I permit myself to lie down and go to sleep! I do not even secure my rifle! Quest, I shall never forgive myself."

"No good worrying," Quest sighed. "The question is how best to get out of the mess. What's the next move, anyway?"

The Professor glanced towards the sun and took a small compass from his pocket. He pointed across the desert.

"That's exactly our route," he said, "but I reckon we still must be two days from the Mongars, and how we are going to get there ourselves, much more get the women there, without camels, I don't know. There are no wells, and I don't believe those fellows have left us a single tin of water."

"Any chance of falling in with a caravan?" Quest enquired.

"Not one in a hundred," the Professor replied gloomily. "If we were only this short distance out of Port Said, and on one of the recognised trade routes, we should probably meet half-a-dozen before mid-day. Here we are simply in the wilds. The way we are going leads to nowhere and finishes in an utterly uninhabitable jungle."

"Think we'd better turn round and try and bisect one of the trade routes?" Quest suggested.

The Professor shook his head.

"We should never know when we'd struck it. There are no milestones or telegraph wires. We shall have to put as brave a face on it as possible, and push on."

Laura put her head out of the tent in which the two women had slept.

"Say, where's breakfast?" she exclaimed. "I can't smell the coffee."

They turned and approached her silently. The two girls, fully dressed, came out of the tent as they approached.

"Young ladies," the Professor announced, "I regret to say that a misfortune has befallen us, a misfortune which we shall be able, without a doubt, to surmount, but which will mean a day of hardship and much inconvenience."

"Where are the camels?" Lenora asked breathlessly.

"Gone!" Quest replied.

"And the Arabs?"

"Gone with them—we are left high and dry," Quest explained. "Those fellows are as superstitious as they can be, and Hassan's death has given them the scares. They have gone back to Port Said."

"And what is worse," the Professor added, with a groan, "they have taken with them all our stores, our rifles and our water."

"How far are we from the Mongar Camp?" Lenora asked.

"About a day's tramp," Quest replied quickly. "We may reach there by nightfall."

"Then let's start walking at once, before it gets any hotter," Lenora suggested.

Quest patted her on the back. They made a close search of the tents but found that the Arabs had taken everything in the way of food and drink, except a single half-filled tin of drinking water. They moistened their lips with this carefully, Quest with the camphor in his hand. They found it good, however, though lukewarm. Laura produced a packet of sweet chocolate from her pocket.

"It's some breakfast, this," she remarked, as she handed it round. "Let's get a move on."

"And if I may be permitted to make the suggestion," the Professor advised, "not too much chocolate. It is sustaining, I know, but this sweetened concoction encourages thirst, and it is thirst which we have most to—from which we may suffer most inconvenience."

"One, two, three—march!" Laura sung out. "Come on, everybody."

They started bravely enough, but by mid-day their little stock of water was gone, and their feet were sorely blistered. No one complained, however, and the Professor especially did his best to revive their spirits.

"We have come further than I had dared to hope, in the time," he announced. "Fortunately, I know the exact direction we must take. Keep up your spirits, young ladies. At any time now we may see signs of our destination."

"Makes one sad to think of the drinks we could have had," Quest muttered. "What's that?"

The whole party stopped short. Before them was a distant vision of white houses, of little stunted groves of trees, the masts of ships in the distance.

"It's Port Said!" Quest exclaimed. "What the mischief—have we turned round? Say, Professor, has your compass got the jim-jams?"

"I don't care where it is," Lenora faltered, with tears in her eyes. "I thought Port Said was a horrible place, but just now I believe it's heaven."

The Professor turned towards them and shook his head.

"Can't you see?" he pointed out. "It's a mirage—a desert mirage. They are quite common at dusk."

Lenora for a moment was hysterical, and even Laura gave a little sob. Quest set his teeth and glanced at the Professor.



"Always water near where there's a mirage, isn't there, Professor?"

"That's so," the Professor agreed. "We are coming to something, all right."

They struggled on once more. Night came and brought with it a half soothing, half torturing coolness. That vain straining of the eyes upon the horizon, at any rate, was spared to them. They slept in a fashion, but soon after dawn they were on their feet again. They were silent now, for their tongues were swollen and talk had become painful. Their walk had become a shamble, but there was one expression in their haggard faces common to all of them—the brave, dogged desire to struggle on to the last. Suddenly Quest, who had gone a little out of his way to mount a low ridge of sand-hills, waved his arm furiously. He was holding his field-glasses to his eyes. It was wonderful how that ray of hope transformed them. They hurried to where he was. He passed the glasses to the Professor.

"A caravan!" he exclaimed. "I can see the camels, and horses!"

The Professor almost snatched the glasses.

"It is quite true," he agreed. "It is a caravan crossing at right angles to our direction. Come! They will see us before long."

Lenora began to sob and Laura to laugh. Both were struggling with a tendency towards hysterics. The Professor and Quest marched grimly side by side. With every step they took the caravan became more distinct. Presently three or four horsemen detached themselves from the main body and came galloping towards them. The eyes of the little party glistened as they saw that the foremost had a water-bottle slung around his neck. He came dashing up, waving his arms.

"You lost, people?" he asked. "Want water?"

They almost snatched the bottle from him. It was like pouring life into their veins. They all, at the Professor's instigation, drank sparingly. Quest, with a great sigh of relief, lit a cigar.

"Some adventure, this!" he declared.

The Professor, who had been talking to the men in their own language, turned back towards the two girls.

"It is a caravan," he explained, "of peaceful merchants on their way to Jaffa. They are halting for us, and we shall be able, without a doubt, to arrange for water and food and a camel or two horses. The man here asks if the ladies will take the horses and ride?"

They started off gaily to where the caravan had come to a standstill. They had scarcely traversed a hundred yards, however, before the Arab who was leading Lenora's horse came to a sudden standstill. He pointed with his arm and commenced to talk in an excited fashion to his two companions. From across the desert, facing them, came a little company of horsemen, galloping fast and with the sunlight flashing upon their rifles.

"The Mongars!" the Arab cried, pointing wildly. "They attack the caravan!"

The three Arabs talked together for a moment in an excited fashion. Then, without excuse or warning, they swung the two women to the ground, leapt on their horses, and, turning northwards, galloped away. Already the crack of the rifles and little puffs of white smoke showed them where the Mongars, advancing cautiously, were commencing their attack. The Professor looked on anxiously.

"I am not at all sure," he said in an undertone to Quest, "about our position with the Mongars. Craig has a peculiar hold upon them, but as a rule they hate white men, and their blood will be up.... See! the fight is all over. Those fellows were no match for the Mongars. Most of them have fled and left the caravan."

The fight was indeed over. Four of the Mongars had galloped away in pursuit of the Arabs who had been the temporary escort of Quest and his companions. They passed about a hundred yards away, waving their arms and shouting furiously. One of them even fired a shot, which missed Quest by only a few inches.

"They say they are coming back," the Professor muttered. "Who's this? It's the Chief and—"

"Our search is over, at any rate," Quest interrupted. "It's Craig!"

They came galloping up, Craig in white linen clothes and an Arab cloak; the Chief by his side—a fine, upright man with long grey beard; behind, three Mongars, their rifles already to their shoulders. The Chief wheeled up his horse as he came within twenty paces of the little party.

"White! English!" he shouted. "Why do you seek death here?"

He waited for no reply but turned to his men. Three of them dashed forward, their rifles, which were fitted with an odd sort of bayonet, drawn back for the plunge. Quest, snatching his field-glasses from his shoulders, swung them by the strap above his head, and brought them down upon the head of his assailant. The man reeled and his rifle fell from his hand. Quest picked it up, and stood on guard. The other two Mongars swung round towards him, raising their rifles to their shoulders. Quest held Lenora to him. It seemed as though their last second had come. Suddenly Craig, who had been a little in the rear, galloped, shouting, into the line of fire.

"Stop!" he ordered. "Chief, these people are my friends. Chief, the word!"

The Chief raised his arm promptly. The men lowered their rifles, and Craig galloped back to his host's side. The Chief listened to him, nodding gravely. Presently he rode up to the little party. He saluted the Professor and talked to him in his own language. The Professor turned to the others.

"The Chief apologises for not recognising me," he announced. "It seems that Craig had told him that he had come to the desert for shelter, and he imagined at once, when he gave the order for the attack upon us, that we were his enemies. He says that we are welcome to go with him to his encampment."

Quest stood for a moment irresolute.

"Seems to me we're in a pretty fix," he muttered. "We've got to owe our lives to that fellow Craig, anyway, and how shall we be able to get him away from them, goodness only knows."

"That is for later," the Professor said gravely. "At present I think we cannot do better than accept the hospitality of the Chief. Even now the Chief is suspicious. I heard him ask Craig why, if these were his friends, he did not greet them."

Craig turned slowly towards them. It was a strange meeting. His face was thin and worn, there were hollows in his cheeks, a dull light in his sunken eyes. He had the look of the hunted animal. He spoke to them in a low tone.

"It is necessary," he told them, "that you should pretend to be my friends. The Chief has ordered two of his men to dismount. Their ponies are for the young ladies. There will be horses for you amongst the captured ones from the caravan yonder."

"So we meet at last, Craig," the Professor said sternly.

Craig raised his eyes and dropped them again. He said nothing. He turned instead once more towards Quest.

"Whatever there may be between us," he said, "your lives are mine at this moment, if I chose to take them. For the sake of the women, do as I advise. The Chief invites you to his encampment as his guests."

They all turned towards the Chief, who remained a little on the outside of the circle. The Professor raised his hat and spoke a few words in his own language, then he turned to the others.

"I have accepted the invitation of the Chief," he announced. "We had better start."

* * * * *

"This may not be Delmonico's," Laura remarked, a few hours later, with a little sigh of contentment, "but believe me that goat-stew and sherbet tasted better than any chicken and champagne I ever tasted."

"And I don't quite know what tobacco this is," Quest added, helping himself to one of a little pile of cigarettes which had been brought in to them, "but it tastes good."

They moved to the opening of the tent and sat looking out across the silent desert. Laura took the flap of the canvas in her hand.

"What do all these marks mean?" she asked.

"They are cabalistic signs," the Professor replied, "part of the language of the tribe. They indicate that this is the guest tent, and there are a few little maxims traced upon it, extolling the virtues of hospitality. Out in the desert there we met the Mongars as foes, and we had, I can assure you, a very narrow escape of our lives. Here, under the shelter of their encampment, it is a very different matter. We have eaten their salt."

"It's a strange position," Quest remarked moodily.

Lenora leaned forward to where a little group of Mongars were talking together.

"I wish that beautiful girl would come and let us see her again," she murmured.

"She," the Professor explained, "is the Chief's daughter, Feerda, whose life Craig saved."

"And from the way she looks at him," Laura observed, "I should say she hadn't forgotten it, either."

The Professor held up a warning finger. The girl herself had glided to their side out of the shadows. She faced the Professor. The rest of the party she seemed to ignore. She spoke very slowly and in halting English.

"My father wishes to know that you are satisfied?" she said. "You have no further wants?"

"None," the Professor assured her. "We are very grateful for this hospitality, Feerda."

"Won't you talk to us for a little time?" Lenora begged, leaning forward.

The girl made no responsive movement. She seemed, if anything, to shrink a little away. Her head was thrown back, her dark eyes were filled with dislike. She turned suddenly to the Professor and spoke to him in her own language. She pointed to the signs upon the tent, drew her finger along one of the sentences, flashed a fierce glance at them all and disappeared.

"Seems to me we are not exactly popular with the young lady," Quest remarked. "What was she saying, Professor?"

"She suspects us," the Professor said slowly, "of wishing to bring evil to Craig. She pointed to a sentence upon the tent. Roughly it means 'Gratitude is the debt of hospitality.' I am very much afraid that the young lady must have been listening to our conversation a while ago."

Lenora shivered.

"To think of any girl," she murmured, "caring for a fiend like Craig!"

Before they knew it she was there again, her eyes on fire, her tone shaking.

"You call him evil, he who saved your lives, who saved you from the swords of my soldiers!" she cried. "I wish that you had all died before you came here. I hope that you yet may die!"

She passed away into the night. The Professor looked anxiously after her.

"It is a humiliating reflection," he said, "but we are most certainly in Craig's power. Until we have been able to evolve some scheme for liberating ourselves and taking him with us, if possible, I think that we had better avoid any reference to him as much as possible. That young woman is quite capable of stirring up the whole tribe against us. The whole onus of hospitality would pass if they suspected we meant evil to Craig, and they have an ugly way of dealing with their enemies.... Ah! Listen!"

The Professor suddenly leaned forward. There was a queer change in his face. From somewhere on the other side of that soft bank of violet darkness came what seemed to be the clear, low cry of some animal.

"It is the Mongar cry of warning," he said hoarsely. "Something is going to happen."

The whole encampment was suddenly in a state of activity. The Mongars ran hither and thither, getting together their horses. The Chief, with Craig by his side, was standing on the outskirts of the camp. The cry came again, this time much louder and nearer. Soon they caught the muffled trampling of a horse's hoofs galloping across the soft sands, then the gleam of his white garments as he came suddenly into sight, in the edge of the little circle of light thrown by the fire. They saw him leap from his horse, run to the Chief, bend double in some form of salute, then commence to talk rapidly. The Chief listened with no sign of emotion, but in a moment or two he was giving rapid orders. Camels appeared from some invisible place. Men, already on horseback, were galloping hither and thither, collecting fire-arms and spare ammunition. Pack-horses were being loaded, tents rolled up and every evidence of breaking camp.

"Seems to me there's a move on," Quest muttered, as they rose to their feet. "I wonder if we are in it."

A moment or two later Craig approached them. He came with his shoulders stooped and his eyes fixed upon the ground. He scarcely raised them as he spoke.

"Word has been brought to the Chief," he announced, "that the Arab who escaped from the caravan has fallen in with an outpost of British soldiers. They have already started in pursuit of us. The Mongars will take refuge in the jungle, where they have prepared hiding-places. We start at once."

"What about us?" the Professor enquired.

"I endeavoured," Craig continued, "to persuade the Chief to allow you to remain here, when the care of you would devolve upon the English soldiers. He and Feerda, however, have absolutely refused my request. Feerda has overheard some of your conversation, and the Chief believes that you will betray us. You will have to come along, too."

"You mean," Laura exclaimed, "that we've got to tramp into what you call the jungle, and hide there because these thieves are being chased?"

Craig glanced uneasily around.

"Young lady," he said, "you will do well to speak little here. They have long ears and quick understandings, these men. You may call them a race of robbers. They only remember that they are the descendants of an Imperial race, and what they take by the right of conquest they believe Allah sends them. You must do the bidding of the Chief."

He turned away towards where the Chief and Feerda, already on horseback, were waiting for him. Quest leaned towards the Professor.

"Why not tackle the Chief yourself?" he suggested. "Here he comes now. Craig may be speaking the truth, but, on the other hand, it's all to his interests to keep us away from the soldiers."

The Professor rose at once to his feet and stepped out to where the Chief was giving orders.

"Chief," he said, "my friends desire me to speak with you. We are worn out with our adventures. The young ladies who are with us are unused to and ill-prepared for this hard life. We beg that you will allow us to remain here and await the arrival of the English soldiers."

The Chief turned his head. There was little friendliness in his tone.

"Wise man," he replied, "I have sent you my bidding by him who is our honoured guest. I tell you frankly that I am not satisfied with the explanations I have received of your presence here."

Feerda leaned forward, her beautiful eyes flashing in the dim light.

"Ah! but I know," she cried, "they would bring harm to the master. I can read it in their hearts as I have heard it from their own lips."

"What my daughter says is truth," the Chief declared. "Back, wise man, and tell your friends that you ride with us to-night, either as guests or captives. You may take your choice."

The Professor returned to where the others were eagerly awaiting him.

"It is useless," he announced. "The girl, who is clearly enamoured of Craig, suspects us. So does the Chief. Perhaps, secretly, Craig himself is unwilling to leave us here. The Chief never changes his mind and he has spoken. We go either as his captives or his guests. I have heard it said," the Professor added grimly, "that the Mongars never keep captives longer than twenty-four hours."

They all rose at once to their feet, and a few moments later horses were brought. The little procession was already being formed in line. Craig approached them once more.

"You will mount now and ride in the middle of our caravan," he directed. "The Chief does not trust you. If you value your lives, you will do as you are bidden."

"I don't like the idea of the jungle," Lenora sighed.

"Gives me the creeps," Laura admitted, as she climbed upon her horse. "Any wild animals there, Professor?"

The Professor became more cheerful.

"The animal life of the region we are about to traverse," he observed, as they moved off, "is in some respects familiar to me. Twelve years ago I devoted some time to research a little to the westward of our present route. I will, if you choose, as we ride, give you a brief account of some of my discoveries."

The two girls exchanged glances. Quest, who had intercepted them, turned his horse and rode in between the Professor and Lenora.

"Go right ahead, Professor," he invited. "Fortunately the girls have got saddles like boxes—I think they both mean to go to sleep."

"An intelligent listener of either sex," the Professor said amiably, "will be a stimulus to my memory."

2.

"You can call this fairyland, if you want," Laura remarked, gazing around her; "I call it a nasty, damp, oozy spot."

"It seemed very beautiful when we first came," Lenora sighed, "but that was after the heat and glare of the desert. There does seem something a little unhealthy about it."

"I'm just about fed up with Mongars," Quest declared.

"We do nothing but lie about, and they won't even let us fire a gun off."

"Personally," the Professor confessed, holding up a glass bottle in front of him from which a yellow beetle was making frantic efforts to escape, "I find this little patch of country unusually interesting. The specimen which I have here—I spare you the scientific name for him—belongs to a class of beetle which has for long eluded me."

Laura regarded the specimen with disfavour.

"So far as I am concerned," she observed, "I shouldn't have cared if he'd eluded you a little longer. Don't you dare let him out, Professor."

"My dear young lady," the Professor assured her, "the insect is perfectly secure. Through the cork, as you see, I have bored a couple of holes, hoping to keep him alive until we reach Port Said, when I can prepare him as a specimen."

"Port Said!" Lenora murmured. "It sounds like heaven."

Quest motioned them to sit a little nearer.

"Well," he said, "I fancy we are all feeling about the same except the Professor, and even he wants to get some powder for his beetle. I had a moment's talk with Craig this morning, and from what he says I fancy they mean to make a move a little further in before long. It'll be all the more difficult to escape then."

"You think we could get away?" Lenora whispered eagerly.

Quest glanced cautiously around. They were surrounded by thick vegetation, but they were only a very short distance from the camp.

"Seems to me," he continued, "we shall have to try it some day or other and I'm all for trying it soon. Even if they caught us, I don't believe they'd dare to kill us, with the English soldiers so close behind. I am going to get hold of two or three rifles and some ammunition. That's easy, because they leave them about all the time. And what you girls want to do is to hide some food and get a bottle of water."

"What about Craig?" the Professor asked.

"We are going to take him along," Quest declared grimly. "He's had the devil's own luck so far, but it can't last forever. I'll see to that part of the business, if you others get ready and wait for me to give the signal.... What's that?"

They all looked around. There had been a little rustling amongst the canopy of bushes. Quest peered through and returned, frowning.

"Feerda again," he muttered. "She hangs around all the time, trying to listen to what we are saying. She couldn't have heard this, though. Now, girls, remember. When the food is about this evening, see how much you can get hold of. I know just where to find the guns and the horses. Let's separate now. The Professor and I will go on a beetle hunt."

They dispersed in various directions. It was not until late in the evening, when the Mongars had withdrawn a little to indulge in their customary orgy of crooning songs, that they were absolutely alone. Quest looked out of the tent in which they had been sitting and came back again.

"Well?"

Laura lifted her skirt and showed an unusual projection underneath.

"Lenora and I have pinned up our petticoats," she announced. "We've got plenty of food and a bottle of water."

Quest threw open the white Arab cloak which he had been wearing. He had three rifles strapped around him.

"The Professor's got the ammunition," he said, "and we've five horses tethered a hundred paces along the track we came by, just behind the second tree turning to the left. I want you all to go there now at once and take the rifles. There isn't a soul in the camp and you can carry them wrapped in this cloak. I'll join you in ten minutes."

"What about Craig?" the Professor enquired.

"I am seeing to him," Quest replied.

Lenora hesitated.

"Isn't it rather a risk?" she whispered fearfully.

Quest's face was suddenly stern.

"Craig is going back with us," he said. "I'll be careful, Lenora. Don't worry."

He strolled out of the tent and came back again.

"The coast's clear," he announced. "Off you go.... One moment," he added, "there are some papers in this little box of mine which one of you ought to take care of."

He bent hastily over the little wallet, which never left him. Suddenly a little exclamation broke from his lips. The Professor peered over his shoulder.

"What is it?"

Quest never said a word. From one of the spaces of the wallet he drew out a small black box, removed the lid and held out the card. They read it together:

"Fools, all of you! The cunning of the ages defeats your puny efforts at every turn.

"THE HANDS!"

Even the Professor's lips blanched a little as he read. Quest, however, seemed suddenly furious. He tore the card and the box to pieces, flung them into a corner of the tent and drew a revolver from his pocket.

"This time," he exclaimed, "we are going to make an end of the Hands! Out you go now, girls. You can leave me to finish things up."

One by one they stole along the path. Quest came out and watched them disappear. Then he gripped his revolver firmly in his hand and turned towards Craig's tent. There was something in the breathless stillness of the place, at that moment, which seemed almost a presage of coming disaster. Without knowing exactly why, Quest's fingers tightened on the butt of his weapon. Then, from the thick growth by the side of the clearing, he saw a dark shape steal out and vanish in the direction of Craig's tent. He came to a standstill, puzzled. There had been rumours of lions all day, but the Professor had been incredulous. The nature of the country, he thought, scarcely favoured the probability of their presence. Then the still, heavy air was suddenly rent by a wild scream of horror. Across the narrow opening the creature had reappeared, carrying something in its mouth, something which gave vent all the time to the most awful yells. Quest fired his revolver on chance and broke into a run. Already the Mongars, disturbed in their evening amusement, were breaking into the undergrowth in chase. Quest came to a standstill. It was from Craig's tent that the beast had issued!

He turned slowly around. If Craig had indeed paid for his crimes by so horrible a death, there was all the more reason why they should make their escape in the general confusion, and make it quickly. He retraced his steps. The sound of shouting voices grew less and less distinct. When he reached the meeting place, he found the Professor standing at the corner with the rest. His face showed signs of the most lively curiosity.

"From the commotion," he announced, "I believe that, after all, a lion has visited the camp. The cries which we have heard were distinctly the cries of a native."

Quest shook his head.

"A lion's been here all right," he said, "and he has finished our little job for us. That was Craig. I saw him come out of Craig's tent."

The Professor was dubious.

"My friend," he said, "you are mistaken. There is nothing more characteristic and distinct than the Mongar cry of fear. They seldom use it except in the face of death. That was the cry of a native Mongar. As for Craig, well, you see that tree that looks like a dwarfed aloe?"

Quest nodded.

"What about it?"

"Craig was lying there ten minutes ago. He sprang up when he heard the yells from the encampment, but I believe he is there now."

"Got the horses all right?" Quest enquired.

"Everything is waiting," the Professor replied.

"I'll have one more try, then," Quest declared.

He made his way slowly through the undergrowth to the spot which the Professor had indicated. Close to the trunk of a tree Craig was standing. Feerda was on her knees before him. She was speaking to him in broken English.

"Dear master, you shall listen to your slave. These people are your enemies. It would be all over in a few minutes. You have but to say the word. My father is eager for it. No one would ever know."

Craig patted her head. His tone was filled with the deepest despondency.

"It is impossible, Feerda," he said. "You do not understand. I cannot tell you everything. Sometimes I almost think that the best thing I could do would be to return with them to the countries you know nothing of."

"That's what you are going to do, any way," Quest declared, suddenly making his appearance. "Hands up!"

He covered Craig with his revolver, but his arm was scarcely extended before Feerda sprang at him like a little wild-cat. He gripped her with his left arm and held her away with difficulty.

"Craig," he continued, "you're coming with us. You know the way to Port Said and we want you—you know why. Untie that sash from your waist. Quickly!"

Craig obeyed. He had the stupefied air of a man who has lost for the time his volition.

"Tie it to the tree," Quest ordered. "Leave room enough."

Craig did as he was told. Then he turned and held the loose ends up. Quest lowered his revolver for a moment as he pushed Feerda toward it. Craig, with a wonderful spring, reached his side and kicked the revolver away. Before Quest could even stoop to recover it, he saw the glitter of the other's knife pressed against his chest.

"Listen," Craig declared. "I've made up my mind. I won't go back to America. I've had enough of being hunted all over the world. This time I think I'll rid myself of one of you, at any rate."

"Will you?"

The interruption was so unexpected that Craig lost his nerve. Through an opening in the trees, only a few feet away, Lenora had suddenly appeared. She, too, held a revolver; her hand was as steady as a rock.

"Drop your knife," she ordered Craig.

He obeyed without hesitation.

"Now tie the sash around the girl."

He obeyed mechanically. Feerda, who had been fiercely resisting Quest's efforts to hold her, yielded without a struggle as soon as Craig touched her. She looked at him, however, with bitter reproach.

"You would tie me here?" she murmured. "You would leave me?"



"It is Fate," Craig muttered. "I am worn out with trying to escape, Feerda. They will come soon and release you."

She opened her lips to shriek, but Quest, who had made a gag of her linen head-dress, thrust it suddenly into her mouth. He took Craig by the collar and led him to the spot where the others were waiting. They hoisted him on to a horse. Already behind them they could see the flare of the torches from the returning Mongars.

"You know the way to Port Said," Quest whispered. "See that you lead us there. There will be trouble, mind, if you don't."

Craig made no reply. He rode off in front of the little troop, covered all the time by Quest's revolver. Very soon they were out of the jungle and in the open desert. Quest looked behind him uneasily.

"To judge by the row those fellows are making," he remarked, "I should think that they've found Feerda already."

"In that case," the Professor said gravely, "let me recommend you to push on as fast as possible. We have had one escape from them, but nothing in the world can save us now that you have laid hands upon Feerda. The Chief would never forgive that."

"We've got a start, any way," Quest observed, "and these are the five best horses in the camp. Girls, a little faster. We've got to trust Craig for the direction but I believe he is right."

"So far as my instinct tells me," the Professor agreed, "I believe that we are heading in precisely the right direction."

They galloped steadily on. The moon rose higher and higher until it became almost as light as day. Often the Professor raised himself in his saddle and peered forward.

"This column of soldiers would march at night," he remarked. "I am hoping all the time that we may meet them."

Quest fell a little behind to his side, although he never left off watching Craig.

"Look behind you, Professor," he whispered.

In the far distance were a number of little black specks, growing every moment larger. Even at that moment they heard the low, long call of the Mongars.

"They are gaining on us," Quest muttered.

The two girls, white though they were, bent over their horses.

"We'll stick to it till the last moment," Quest continued, "then we'll turn and let them have it."

They raced on for another mile or more. A bullet whistled over their heads. Quest tightened his reins.

"No good," he sighed. "We'd better stay and fight it out, Professor. Stick close to me, Lenora."

They drew up and hastily dismounted. The Mongars closed in around them. A cloud had drifted in front of the moon, and in the darkness it was almost impossible to see their whereabouts. They heard the Chief's voice.

"Shoot first that dog of a Craig!"

There was a shriek. Suddenly Feerda, breaking loose from the others, raced across the little division. She flung herself from her horse.

"Tell my father that you were not faithless," she pleaded. "They shall not kill you!"

She clung to Craig's neck. The bullets were beginning to whistle around them now. All of a sudden she threw up her arms. Craig, in a fury, turned around and fired into the darkness. Then suddenly, as though on the bidding of some unspoken word, there was a queer silence. Every one was distinctly conscious of an alien sound—the soft thud of many horses' feet galloping from the right; then a sharp, English voice of command.

"Hold your fire, men. Close into the left there. Steady!"

The cloud suddenly rolled away from the moon. A long line of horsemen were immediately visible. The officer in front rode forward.

"Drop your arms and surrender," he ordered sternly.

The Mongars, who were outnumbered by twenty to one, obeyed without hesitation. Their Chief seemed unconscious, even, of what had happened. He was on his knees, bending over the body of Feerda, half supported in Craig's arms. The officer turned to Quest.

"Are you the party who left Port Said for the Mongar Camp?" he asked.

Quest nodded.

"They took us into the jungle—just escaped. They'd caught us here, though, and I'm afraid we were about finished if you hadn't come along. We are not English—we're American."

"Same thing," the officer replied, as he held out his hand. "Stack up their arms, men," he ordered, turning around. "Tie them in twos. Dennis, take the young ladies back to the commissariat camels."

The Professor drew a little sigh.

"Commissariat!" he murmured. "That sounds most inviting."



CHAPTER XIII

'NEATH IRON WHEELS

1.

Side by side they leaned over the rail of the steamer and gazed shorewards at the slowly unfolding scene before them. For some time they had all preserved an almost ecstatic silence.

"Oh, but it's good to see home again!" Laura sighed at last.

"I'm with you," Quest agreed emphatically. "It's the wrong side of the continent, perhaps, but I'm aching to set my foot on American soil again."

"This the wrong side of the continent! I should say not!" Laura exclaimed, pointing to where in the distance the buildings of the Exposition gleamed almost snow-white in the dazzling sunshine. "Why, I have never seen anything so beautiful in my life."

The Professor intervened amiably. His face, too, shone with pleasure as he gazed landwards.

"I agree with the young lady," he declared. "The blood and sinews of life may seem to throb more ponderously in New York, but there is a big life here on this western side, a great, wide-flung, pulsating life. There is room here, room to breathe."

"And it is so beautiful," Lenora murmured.

Quest glanced a little way along the deck to where a pale-faced man stood leaning upon his folded arms, gazing upon the same scene. There was no smile on Craig's face, no light of anticipation in his eyes.

"I guess there's one of us here," Quest observed, "who is none too pleased to see America again."

Lenora shivered a little. They were all grave.

"We must, I think, admit," the Professor said, "that Craig's deportment during the voyage has been everything that could be desired. He has even voluntarily carried out certain small attentions to my person which I must confess that I had greatly missed."

"That's all right," Quest agreed. "At the same time I am afraid the moment has come now to remind him that the end is drawing near."

Quest moved slowly down the deck towards Craig's side, and touched him on the arm.

"Give me your left wrist, Craig," he said quietly.

The man slunk away. There was a sudden look of horror in his white face. He started back but Quest was too quick for him. In a moment there was the click of a handcuff, the mate of which was concealed under the criminologist's cuff.

"You'd better take things quietly," the latter advised. "It will only hurt you to struggle. Step this way a little. Put your hand in your pocket, so, and no one will notice."

Craig obeyed silently. They stepped along the deck towards the rest of the party. Lenora handed her glasses to Quest.

"Do look, Mr. Quest," she begged. "There is Inspector French standing in the front row on the dock, with two enormous bunches of flowers—carnations for me, I expect, and poinsettias for Laura. They're the larger bunch."

Quest took the glasses and nodded.

"That's French, right enough," he assented. "Look at him standing straightening his tie in front of that advertisement mirror! Flowers, too! Say, he's got his eye on one of you girls. Not you, by any chance, is it, Lenora?"

Lenora laughed across at Laura, who had turned a little pink.

"I guess French has got sense enough to know I'm not that sort," the latter replied. "The double-harness stuff doesn't appeal to me, and he knows it!"

Lenora made a little grimace as she turned away.

"Well," she said, "it's brave talk."

"Almost," the Professor pointed out, "Amazonian. Yet in the ancient days even the Amazons were sometimes tamed."

"Oh, nonsense!" Laura exclaimed, turning away. "I don't see why the man wants to make himself look like a walking conservatory, though," she added under her breath.

"And I think it's sweet of him," Lenora insisted. "If there's anything I'm longing for, it's a breath of perfume from those flowers."

Slowly the great steamer drifted nearer and nearer to the dock, hats were waved from the little line of spectators, ropes were drawn taut. The Inspector was standing at the bottom of the gangway as they all passed down. He shook hands with every one vigorously. Then he presented Lenora with her carnations and Laura with the poinsettias. Lenora was enthusiastic. Even Laura murmured a few words of thanks.

"Some flowers, those poinsettias," the Inspector agreed.

Quest gripped him by the arm.

"French," he said, "I tell you I shall make your hair curl when you hear all that we've been through. Do you feel like having me start in right away, on our way to the cars?"

French withdrew his arm.

"Nothing doing," he replied. "I want to talk to Miss Laura. You can stow that criminal stuff. It'll wait all right. You've got the fellow—that's what matters."

Quest exchanged an amused glance with Lenora. The Inspector and Laura fell a little behind. The former took off his hat for a moment and fanned himself.

"Say, Miss Laura," he began, "I'm a plain man, and a poor hand at speeches. I've been saying a few nice things over to myself on the dock here for the last hour, but everything's gone right out of my head. Look here, it sums up like this. How do you feel about quitting this bunch right away and coming back to New York with me?"

"What do I want to go to New York for?" Laura demanded.

"Oh, come on, Miss Laura, you know what I mean," French replied. "We'll slip off and get married here and then take this man Craig to New York. Once get him safely in the Tombs and we'll go off on a honeymoon anywhere you say."

Laura was on the point of laughing at him. Then the unwonted seriousness of his expression appealed suddenly to her sympathy. She patted him kindly on the shoulder.

"You're a good sort, Inspector, but you've picked the wrong girl. I've run along on my own hook ever since I was born, I guess, and I can't switch my ideas over to this married stuff. You'd better get a move on and get Craig back to New York before he slips us again. I'm going to stay here with the others."

The Inspector sighed. His face had grown long, and the buoyancy had passed from his manner.

"This is some disappointment, believe me, Miss Laura," he confessed.

"Cheer up," she laughed. "You'll get over it all right."

They found the others waiting for them at the end of the great wooden shed. Quest turned to French.

"Look here, French," he said, "you know I don't want to hurry you off, but I don't know what we're going to do with this fellow about in San Francisco. We don't want to lodge two charges, and we should have to put him in jail to-night. Why don't you take him on right away? There's a Limited goes by the southern route in an hour's time."

French assented gloomily.

"That suits me," he agreed. "You'll be glad to get rid of the fellow, too," he added.

They drove straight to the depot, found two vacant seats in the train, and Quest with a little sigh of relief handed over his charge. Craig, who, though still dumb, had shown signs of intense nervousness since the landing, sank back in his corner seat, covering the upper part of his head with his hands. Suddenly Lenora, who had been chatting with French through the window, happened to glance towards Craig. She gave a little cry and stepped back.

"Look!" she exclaimed. "The eyes! Those are the eyes that haunted me all through those terrible days!"

She was suddenly white. Quest passed his arm through hers and glanced through the carriage window. In the shaded light, Craig's eyes seemed indeed to have suddenly grown in power and intensity. They shone fiercely from underneath the hands which clasped his forehead.

"Well, that's the last you'll see of them," Quest reminded her soothingly. "Come, you're not going to break down now, Lenora. We've been through it all and there he is, safe and sound in French's keeping. There is nothing more left in the world to frighten you."

Lenora pulled herself together with an effort.

"It was silly," she confessed, "yet even now—"

"Don't you worry, Miss Lenora," French cried from out of the window. "You can take my word for it the job's finished this time. Good-bye, all of you! Good-bye, Miss Laura!"

Laura waved her hand gaily. They all stood and watched the train depart. Then they turned away from the depot.

"Now for a little holiday," Quest declared, passing Lenora's arm through his. "We'll just have a look round the city and then get down to San Diego and take a look at the Exposition there. No responsibilities, no one to look after, nothing to do but enjoy ourselves."

"Capital!" the Professor agreed, beaming upon them all. "There is a collection of fossilised remains in the museum here, the study of which will afford me the greatest pleasure and interest."

The girls laughed heartily.

"I think you and I," Quest suggested, turning to them, "will part company with the Professor!"

* * * * *

Quest and Lenora turned away from the window of the hotel, out of which they had been gazing for the last quarter of an hour. Stretched out before them were the lights of the Exposition, a blur of twinkling diamonds against the black garb of night. Beyond, the flashing of a light-house and a faint background of dark sea.

"It's too beautiful," Lenora sighed.

Quest stood for a moment shaking his head. The Professor with a pile of newspapers stretched out before him, was completely engrossed in their perusal. Laura, who had been sitting in an armchair at the further end of the apartment, was apparently deep in thought. The newspaper which she had been reading had slipped unnoticed from her fingers.

"Say, you two are no sort of people for a holiday," Quest declared. "As for you, Laura, I can't think what's come over you. You never opened your mouth at dinner-time, and you sit there now looking like nothing on earth."

"I am beginning to suspect her," Lenora chimed in. "Too bad he had to hurry away, dear!"

Laura's indignation was not altogether convincing. Quest and Lenora exchanged amused glances. The former picked up the newspaper from the floor and calmly turned out the Professor's lamp.

"Look here," he explained, "this is the first night of our holiday. I'm going to run the party and I'm going to make the rules. No more newspapers to-night or for a fortnight. You understand? No reading, nothing but frivolity. And no love-sickness, Miss Laura."

"Love-sickness, indeed!" she repeated scornfully.

"Having arranged those minor details," Quest concluded, "on with your hats, everybody. I am going to take you out to a cafe where they play the best music in the city. We are going to have supper, drink one another's health, and try and forget the last few months altogether."

Lenora clapped her hands and Laura rose at once to her feet. The Professor obediently crossed the room for his hat.

"I am convinced," he said, "that our friend Quest's advice is good. We will at any rate embark upon this particular frivolity which he suggests."

2.

Quest took the dispatch which the hotel clerk handed to him one afternoon a fortnight later, and read it through without change of expression. Lenora, however, who was by his side, knew at once that it contained something startling.

"What is it?" she asked.

He passed his arm through hers and led her down the hall to where the Professor and Laura were just waiting for the lift. He beckoned them to follow him to a corner of the lounge.

"There's one thing I quite forgot, a fortnight ago," he said, slowly, "when I suggested that we should none of us look at a newspaper all the time we were in California. Have you kept to our bargain, Professor?"

"Absolutely!"

"And you, girls?"

"I've never even seen one," Lenora declared.

"Nor I," Laura echoed.

"I made a mistake," Quest confessed. "Something has happened which we ought to have known about. You had better read this message—or, wait, I'll read it aloud:—

"To Sanford Quest, Garfield Hotel, San Diego.

"Injured in wreck of Limited. Recovered consciousness today. Craig reported burned in wreck but think you had better come on."

"FRENCH, Samaritan Hospital, Allguez."

"When can we start?" Laura exclaimed excitedly.

Lenora clutched at Quest's arm.

"I knew it," she declared simply. "I felt perfectly certain, when they left San Francisco, that something would happen. We haven't seen the end of Craig yet."

Quest, who had been studying a time-table, glanced once more at the dispatch.

"Look here," he said, "Allguez isn't so far out of the way if we take the southern route to New York. Let's get a move on to-night."

Laura led the way to the lift. She was in a state of rare discomposure.

"To think that all the time we've been giddying round," she muttered, "that poor man has been lying in hospital! Makes one feel like a brute."

"He's been unconscious all the time," Quest reminded her.

"Might have expected to find us there when he came-to, any way," Laura insisted.

Lenora smiled faintly as she caught a glance from Quest.

"Laura's got a heart somewhere," she murmured, "only it takes an awful lot of getting at!"...

They found French, already convalescent, comfortably installed in the private ward of a small hospital in the picturesque New Mexican town. Laura almost at once established herself by his side.

"You're going to lose your job here, nurse," Quest told her, smiling.

The nurse glanced at French.

"The change seems to be doing him good, any way," she remarked. "I haven't seen him look so bright yet."

"Can you remember anything about the wreck, French?" Quest enquired.

The Inspector passed his hand wearily over his forehead.

"It seems more like a dream—or rather a nightmare—than anything," he admitted. "I was sitting opposite Craig when the crash came. I was unconscious for a time. When I came to, I was simply pinned down by the side of the car. I could see a man working hard to release me, tugging and straining with all his might. Every now and then I got a glimpse of his face. It seemed queer, but I could have sworn it was Craig. Then other people passed by. I heard the shriek of a locomotive. I could see a doctor bending over some bodies. Then it all faded away and came back again. The second time I was nearly free. The man who had been working so hard was just smashing the last bit of timber away, and again I saw his face and that time I was sure that it was Craig. Anyway, he finished the job. I suddenly felt I could move my limbs. The man stood up as though exhausted, looked at me, called to the doctor, and then he seemed to fade away. It might have been because I was unconscious myself, for I don't remember anything else until I found myself in bed."

"It would indeed," the Professor remarked, "be an interesting circumstance—an interesting psychological circumstance, if I might put it that way—if Craig, the arch-criminal, the man who has seemed to us so utterly devoid of all human feeling, should really have toiled in this manner to set free his captor."

"Interesting or not," Quest observed, "I'd like to know whether it was Craig or not. I understand there were about a dozen unrecognisable bodies found."

The nurse, who had left the room for a few minutes, returned with a small package in her hand, which she handed to French. He looked at it in a puzzled manner.

"What can that be?" he muttered, turning it over. "Addressed to me all right, but there isn't a soul knows I'm here except you people. Will you open it, Miss Laura?"

She took it from him and untied the strings. A little breathless cry escaped from her lips as she tore open the paper. A small black box was disclosed. She opened the lid with trembling fingers and drew out a scrap of paper. They all leaned over and read together:—

"You have all lost again. Why not give it up? You can never win.

"THE HANDS."

Lenora was perhaps the calmest. She simply nodded with the melancholy air of satisfaction of one who finds her preconceived ideas confirmed.

"I knew it!" she exclaimed softly. "I knew it at the depot. Craig's time has not come yet. He may be somewhere near us, even now."

She glanced uneasily around the ward. Quest, who had been examining the post-mark on the package, threw the papers down.

"The post-mark's all blurred out," he remarked. "There's no doubt about it, that fellow Craig has the devil's own luck, but we'll get him—we'll get him yet. I'll just take a stroll up to police head-quarters and make a few inquiries. You might come with me, Lenora, and Laura can get busy with her amateur nursing."

"I shall make inquiries," the Professor announced briskly, "concerning the local museum. There should be interesting relics hereabouts of the prehistoric Indians."

3.

A man sat on the steps of the range cook wagon, crouching as far back as possible to take advantage of its slight shelter from the burning sun. He held before him a newspaper, a certain paragraph of which he was eagerly devouring. In the distance the mail boy was already disappearing in a cloud of dust.

"FAMOUS CRIMINOLOGIST IN ALLGUEZ

"Sanford Quest and his assistants, accompanied by Professor Lord Ashleigh, arrived in Allguez a few days ago to look for John Craig, formerly servant to the scientist. Craig has not been seen since the accident to the Limited, a fortnight ago, and by many is supposed to have perished in the wreck. He was in the charge of Inspector French, and was on his way to New York to stand his trial for homicide. French was taken to the hospital, suffering from concussion of the brain, but is now convalescent."

The man read the paragraph twice. Then he set down the paper and looked steadily across the rolling prairie land. There was a queer, bitter little smile upon his lips.

"So it begins again!" he muttered.

There was a cloud of dust in the distance. The man rose to his feet, shaded his eyes with his hand and shambled round to the back of the wagon, where a long table was set out with knives and forks, hunches of bread and tin cups. He walked a little further away to the fire, and slowly stirred a pot of stew. The little party of cowboys came thundering up. There was a chorus of shouts and exclamations, whistlings and good-natured chaff, as they threw themselves from their horses. Long Jim stood slowly cracking his whip and looking down the table.

"Say, boys, I think he's fixed things up all right," he remarked. "Come on with the grub, cookie."

Silently the man filled each dish with the stew and laid it in its place. Then he retired to the background and the cowboys commenced their meal. Long Jim winked at the others as he picked up a biscuit.

"Cookie, you're no good," he called out. "The stew's rotten. Here, take this!"

He flicked the biscuit, which caught the cook on the side of the head. For a moment the man started. With his hand upon his temple he flashed a look of hatred towards his assailant. Long Jim laughed carelessly.

"Say, cookie," the latter went on, "where did you get them eyes? Guess we'll have to tame you a bit."

The meal was soon over, and Jim strolled across to where the others were saddling up. He passed his left arm through the reins of his horse and turned once more to look at Craig.

"Say, you mind you do better to-night, young fellow. Eh!"

He stopped short with a cry of pain. The horse had suddenly started, wrenching at the reins. Jim's arm hung helplessly down from the shoulder.

"Gee, boys, he's broken it!" he groaned. "Say, this is hell!"

He swore in agony. They all crowded around him.

"What's wrong, Jim?"

"It's broken, sure!"

"Wrong, you helpless sons of loons!" Jim yelled. "Can't any of you do something?"

The cook suddenly pushed his way through the little crowd. He took Jim's shoulder firmly in one hand and his arm in the other. The cowboy howled with pain.

"Let go my arm!" he shouted. "Kill him, boys! My God, I'll make holes in you for this!"

He snatched at his gun with his other hand and the cowboys scattered a little. The cook stepped back, the gun flashed out, only to be suddenly lowered. Jim looked incredulously towards his left arm, which hung no longer helplessly by his side. He swung it backwards and forwards, and a broad grin slowly lit up his lean, brown face. He thrust the gun in his holster and held out his hand.

"Cookie, you're all right!" he exclaimed. "You've done the trick this time. Say, you're a miracle!"

The cook smiled.

"Your arm was just out of joint," he remarked. "It was rather a hard pull but it's all right now."

Jim looked around at the others.

"And to think that I might have killed him!" he exclaimed. "Cookie, you're a white boy. You'll do. We're going to like you here."

Craig watched them ride off. The bitterness had passed from his face. Slowly he began to clean up. Then he crept underneath the wagon and rested....



Evening came and with it a repetition of his labours. When everything was ready to serve, he stepped from behind the wagon and looked across the rolling stretch of open country. There was no one in sight. Softly, almost stealthily, he crept up to the wagon, fetched out from its wooden case a small violin, made his way to the further side of the wagon, sat down with his back to the wheel and began to play. His eyes were closed. Sometimes the movements of his fingers were so slow that the melody seemed to die away. Then unexpectedly he picked it up, carrying the same strain through quick, convulsive passages, lost it again, wandered as though in search of it, extemporising all the time, yet playing always with the air of a man who feels and sees the hidden things. Suddenly the bow rested motionless. A look of fear came into his face. He sprang up. The cowboys were all stealing from the other side of the wagon. They had arrived and dismounted without his hearing them. He sprang to his feet and began to stammer apologies. Long Jim's hand was laid firmly upon his shoulders.

"Say, cookie, you don't need to look so scared. You ain't done nothing wrong. Me and the boys, we like your music. Sing us another tune on that fiddle!"

"I haven't neglected anything," Craig faltered. "It's all ready to serve."

"The grub can wait," Jim replied. "Pull the bow, partner, pull the bow."

The cook looked at him for a moment incredulously. Then he realised that the cowboy was in earnest. He picked up the bow and commenced to play again. They sat around him, wondering, absolutely absorbed. No one even made a move towards the food. It was Craig who led them there at last himself, still playing. Long Jim threw his arm almost caressingly around his shoulder.

"Say, Cookie," he began, "there ain't never no questions asked concerning the past history of the men who find their way out here, just so long as they don't play the game yellow. Maybe you've fitted up a nice little hell for yourself somewhere, but we ain't none of us hankering to know the address. You're white and you're one of us and any time any guy wants to charge you rent for that little hell where you got the furniture of your conscience stored, why, you just let us settle with him, that's all. Now, one more tune, Cookie."

Craig shook his head. He had turned away to where the kettle was hissing on the range fire.

"It is time you had your food," he said.

Long Jim took up the violin and drew the bow across it. There was a chorus of execrations. Craig snatched it from him. He suddenly turned his back upon them all. He had played before as though to amuse himself. He played now with the complete, almost passionate absorption of the artist. His head was uplifted, his eyes half closed. He was no longer the menial, the fugitive from justice. He was playing himself into another world, playing amidst a silence which, considering his audience, was amazing. They crouched across the table and watched him. Long Jim stood like a figure of stone. The interruption which came was from outside.

"More of these damned tourists," Long Jim muttered. "Women, too!"

Craig had stopped playing. He turned his head slowly. Quest was in the act of dismounting from his horse. By his side was the Professor; just behind, Lenora and Laura. Long Jim greeted them with rough cordiality.

"Say, what are you folks looking for?" he demanded.

Quest pointed to Craig.

"We want that man," he announced. "This is Inspector French from New York. I am Sanford Quest."

There was a tense silence. Craig covered his face with his hands, then suddenly looked up.

"I won't come," he cried fiercely. "You've hounded me all round the world. I am innocent. I won't come."

Quest shrugged his shoulders. He took a step forward, but Long Jim, as though by accident, sauntered in the way.

"Got a warrant?" he asked tersely.

"We don't need it," Quest replied. "He's our man, right enough."

"Right this minute he's our cook," drawled Long Jim, "and we ain't exactly particular about going hungry to please a bunch of strangers. Cut it short, Mister. If you ain't got a warrant, you ain't got this man. Maybe we don't sport finger-bowls and silk socks, but we're civilised enough not to let no slim dude walk off with one of our boys without proper authority. So you can just meander along back where you come from. Ain't that right, boys?"

There was a sullen murmur of assent. Quest turned back and whispered for a moment to the Inspector. Then he turned to Long Jim.

"All right," he agreed. "The Inspector here and I will soon see to that. We'll ride back to the township. With your permission, the ladies and our elderly friend will remain for a rest."

"You're welcome to anything we've got except our cook," Jim replied, turning away....

Darkness came early and the little company grew closer and closer to the camp fire, where Craig had once more taken up the violin. The Professor had wandered off somewhere into the darkness and the girls were seated a little apart. They had been treated hospitably but coldly.

"Don't seem to cotton to us, these boys," Laura remarked.

"They don't like us," Lenora replied, "because they think we are after Craig. I wonder what Long Jim has been whispering to him, and what that paper is he has been showing Craig. Do you know how far we are from the Mexican border?"

"Not more than five or six miles, I believe," Laura replied.

Lenora rose softly to her feet and strolled to the back of the range wagon. In a few moments she reappeared, carrying a piece of paper in her hand. She stooped down.

"Craig's saddling up," she whispered. "Look what he dropped."

She held out the paper, on which was traced a roughly drawn map.

"That line's the river that marks the Mexican border," she explained. "You see where Long Jim's put the cross? That's where the bridge is. That other cross is the camp."

She pointed away southwards.

"That's the line," she continued. "Laura, where's the Professor?"

"I don't know," Laura replied. "He rode off some time ago, said he was going to meet Mr. Quest."

"If only he were here!" Lenora muttered. "I feel sure Craig means to escape. There he goes."

They saw him ride off into the darkness. Lenora ran to where her horse was tethered.

"I'm going after him," she announced. "Listen, Laura. If they arrive soon, send them after me. That's the line, as near as I can tell you," she added, pointing.

"Wait; I'm coming too!" Laura exclaimed.

Lenora shook her head.

"You must stay here and tell them about it," she insisted. "I shall be all right."

She galloped off while Laura was still undecided. Almost at that moment she heard from behind the welcome sound of horses' feet in the opposite direction and Quest alone galloped up. Laura laid her hand upon his rein.

"Where are the others?" she asked.

"French and two deputies from the township are about a mile behind," Quest replied. "They've had trouble with their horses."

"Don't get off," Laura continued quickly. "Craig has escaped, riding towards the Mexican frontier. Lenora is following him. He's gone in that direction," she added, pointing. "When you come to the river you'll have to hunt for the bridge."

Quest frowned as he gathered up his reins.

"I was afraid they'd try something of the sort," he muttered. "Tell the others where I've gone, Laura."

He galloped off into the darkness. Behind, there were some growls from the little group of cowboys, none of whom, however, attempted to interfere with him. Long Jim stood up and gazed sullenly southwards.

"Cookie'll make the bridge all right," he remarked. "If the girl catches him, she can't do anything. And that last guy'll never make it. Whoop! Here come the rest of them."

The Inspector, with two deputies, rode suddenly into the camp. The Inspector paused to speak to Laura. Long Jim's eyes sparkled as he saw them approach.

"It's old Harris and fat Andy," he whispered. "We'll have some fun with them."

The older of the two deputies approached them frowning.

"Been at your games again, Long Jim?" he began. "I hear you declined to hand over a criminal who's been sheltering on your ranch? You'll get into trouble before you've finished."

"Got the warrant?" Jim asked.

The deputy produced it. Long Jim looked at it curiously and handed it back.

"Guess the only other thing you want, then, is the man."

"Better produce him quickly," the deputy advised.

Jim turned away.

"Can't do it. He's beat it."

"You mean that you've let him go?"

"Let him go?" Jim repeated. "I ain't got no right to keep him. He took the job on at a moment's notice and he left at a moment's notice. There's some of your party after him, all right."

The deputies whispered to one another. The elder of the two turned around.

"Look here," he said to the cowboys, glancing around for Long Jim, who had disappeared, "we've had about enough of your goings-on. I reckon we'll take one of you back and see what seven days' bread and water will do towards civilising you."

There was a little mutter. The deputies stood side by side. With an almost simultaneous movement they had drawn their guns.

"Where's Long Jim?" the older one asked.

There was a sudden whirring about their heads. A lariat, thrown with unerring accuracy, had gathered them both in its coil. With a jerk they were drawn close together, their hands pinned to their side. Two cowboys quickly disarmed them. Long Jim came sauntering round from the other side of the range wagon, tightening the rope as he walked.

"Say, you've got a hell of a nerve, butting into a peaceable camp like this. We ain't broke no laws. So you're a'going to civilise us, eh? Well, Mister Harris, we can play that civilising game, too. Hey boys, all together, tie 'em up against that wagon."

A dozen willing hands secured them. The two men spluttered wildly, half in anger, half in fear of their tormentors, but in a few seconds they were secured firmly against the canvas-topped wagon.

"Now sit easy, gentlemen, sit easy. Nothing's going to hurt you." Long Jim shoved fresh cartridges into his forty-five. "That is, unless you're unlucky. Line up there, boys, one at a time now. Bud, you and Tim and Dough-head give them guys a singe, their hair's getting too long. The rest of you boys just content yourselves doing a fancy decoration on the canvas all around 'em. I'll deevote my entire attenshun to trimming them lugshuriant whiskers, Mister Harris is a-sporting. All ready now,—one, two, three, let 'em whistle!"

The two deputies gave a simultaneous yell as several bullets sung by their ears.

"Whoa, old horses," drawled Long Jim. "Flies bothering you some, eh? Sit easy, sit easy. Too dangerous hopping around that way. You might stick yourselves right in the way of one of them spitballs. Some nerve tonic this! A.X.X. Ranch brand, ready to serve at all hours, cheap at half the price. Ah ha, pretty near shaved your upper lip that time, didn't I, Mister Harris. My hand's a bit unsteady, what with all the excitement hereabouts. Say, put a stem on that chrysanthemum you're doing, Cotton-top."

The two men, racked with fury and terror, ridiculous in their trussed-up state, motionless and strained, crouched in terror while the bullets passed all around them. Inspector French tapped Long Jim on the shoulder.

"Look here," he remonstrated, "you're looking for trouble. You can't treat the representatives of the law like this."

Long Jim turned slowly around. His politeness was ominous.

"Say, you got me scared," he replied. "Am I going to be hung?"

"The law must be respected," French said firmly. "Untie those men."

Long Jim scratched his head for a moment.

"Say, Mr. Inspector," he remarked, "you're a fine man in your way but you weigh too much—that's what's the matter with you. Boys," he added, turning around, "what's the best exercise for reducing flesh?"

"Dancing," they shouted.

Long Jim grinned. He fell a little back. Suddenly he lowered his gun and shot into the ground, barely an inch from French's feet. The Inspector leaped into the air.

"Once more, boys," the cowboy went on. "Keep it up, Inspector. Jump a little higher next time. You barely cleared that one."

The bullets buried themselves in the dust around the Inspector's feet. Fuming with anger, French found himself continually forced to jump. The two deputies, forgotten for the moment, watched with something that was almost like a grin upon their faces. Laura, protesting loudly, was obliged more than once to look away to hide a smile. Jim at last slipped his gun into his holster.

"No more ammunition to waste, boys," he declared. "Untie the guys with the warrant and bring out the bottle of rye. Say," he went on, addressing the deputies as they struggled to their feet, "and you, Mr. New-Yorker, is it to be friends and a drink, or do you want a quarrel?"

The deputies were very thirsty. The perspiration was streaming down French's forehead. They all looked at one another. Laura whispered in French's ear and he nodded.

"We'll call it a drink," he decided.

* * * * *

The hunted man turned around with a little gasp. Before him was the rude mountain bridge, and on the other side—freedom. Scarcely a dozen lengths away was Lenora, and close behind her came Quest. He slackened speed as he walked his horse cautiously on to the planked bridge. Suddenly he gave a little cry. The frail structure, unexpectedly insecure, seemed to sway beneath his weight. Lenora, who had been riding fast, was unable to stop herself. She came on to the bridge at a half canter. Craig, who had reached the other side in safety, threw up his hands.

"Look out!" he cried. "My God!"

The bridge suddenly collapsed as though it had been made of paper. Lenora, grasping her horse, was thrown into the stream. Quest, galloping up, was only able to check himself just in time. He flung himself from his horse, and plunged into the stream. It was several moments before he was able to reach Lenora. From the opposite bank Craig watched them, glancing once or twice at the bridge. One of the wooden pillars had been sawn completely through.

"Are you hurt, dear?" Quest gasped, as he drew Lenora to the bank.

She shook her head.

"Just my side. Did Craig get away?"

Quest looked gloomily across the stream.

"Craig's in Mexico, right enough," he answered savagely, "but I am beginning to feel that I could fetch him back out of hell!"



CHAPTER XIV

TONGUES OF FLAME

1.

From the shadows of the trees on the further side of the river, Craig with strained eyes watched Quest's struggle. He saw him reach Lenora, watched him struggle to the bank with her, waited until he had lifted her on to his horse. Then he turned slowly around and faced the one country in the world where freedom was still possible for him. He looked into a wall of darkness, penetrated only at one spot by a little blaze of light. Slowly, with his arm through the bridle of his horse, he limped towards it. As he drew nearer and discovered its source, he hesitated. The light came through the uncurtained windows of a saloon, three long, yellow shafts illuminating the stunted shrubs and sandy places. Craig kept in the shadow between them and drew a little nearer. From inside he could hear the thumping of a worn piano, the twanging of a guitar, the rattle of glasses, the uproarious shouting of men, the shrill laughter of women. The tired man and the lame horse stole reluctantly a little nearer. Craig listened once more wearily. It was home he longed for so much—and rest. The very thought of the place sickened him. Even when he reached the door, he hesitated and instead of entering stood back amongst the shadows. If only he could find any other sort of shelter!

Inside, the scene was ordinary enough. There was a long bar, against which were lounging half-a-dozen typical Mexican cowpunchers. There was a small space cleared for dancing, at the further end of which two performers were making weird but vehement music. Three girls were dancing with cowboys, not ungracefully considering the state of the floor and the frequent discords in the music. One of them—the prettiest—stopped abruptly and pushed her partner away from her.

"You have drunk too much, Jose!" she exclaimed. "You cannot dance. You tread on my feet and you lean against me. I do not like it. I will dance with you another night when you are sober. Go away, please."

Her cavalier swayed for a moment on his feet. Then he looked down upon her with an evil glitter in his eyes. He was tall and thin, with a black moustache and yellow, unpleasant-looking teeth.

"So you will not dance any longer with Jose?" he muttered. "Very well, you shall drink with him, then. We will sit together at one of those little tables. Listen, you shall drink wine."

"I do not want to drink wine with you. All that I wish is to be left alone," the girl insisted curtly. "Go and play cards, if you want to. There is Pietro over there, and Diego. Perhaps you may win some money. They say that drunkards have all the luck."

Jose leered at her.

"Presently I will play cards," he said. "Presently I will win all their money and I will buy jewelry for you, Marta—stones that look like diamonds and will sparkle in your neck and in your hair."

She turned disdainfully away.

"I do not want your jewelry, Jose," she declared.

He caught her suddenly by the wrist.

"Perhaps this is what you want," he cried, as he stooped down to kiss her.

She swung her right hand round and struck him on the face. He staggered back for a moment. There was a red flush which showed through the tan of his cheek. Then he drew a little nearer to her, and before she could escape he had passed his long arm around her body. He drew her to the chair placed by the side of the wall. His left hand played with the knife at his belt.

"Marta, little sweetheart," he said mockingly, "you must pay for that blow. Don't be afraid," he went on, as he drew the knife across his leather breeches. "A little scratch across your cheek, so! It is but the brand of your master, a love-token from Jose. Steady, now, little Maverick!"

The girl struggled violently, but Jose was strong, such brawls were common, and those of the company who noticed at all, merely laughed at the girl's futile struggles. Jose's arm was already raised with the knife in his hand, when a sudden blow brought a yell of pain to his lips. The knife fell clattering to the floor. He sprang up, his eyes red with fury. A man had entered the door from behind and was standing within a few feet of him, a man with long, pale face, dark eyes, travel-stained, and with the air of a fugitive. A flood of incoherent abuse streamed from Jose's lips. He stooped for the knife. Marta threw herself upon him. The two cowboys who had been dancing suddenly intervened. The girls screamed.

"It was Jose's fault!" Marta cried. "Jose was mad. He would have killed me!"

Craig faced them all with sudden courage.

"As I came in," he explained, "that man had his knife raised to stab the girl. You don't allow that sort of thing, do you, here?"

The two cowboys linked their arms through Jose's and led him off towards the door.

"The stranger's right, Jose," one of them insisted. "You can't carve a girl up in company."

The girl clutched at Craig's arm.

"Sit down here, please," she begged. "Wait."

She disappeared for a moment and came back with a glass full of wine, which she set down on the table.

"Drink this," she invited. "And thank you for saving me."

Craig emptied the glass eagerly. He was beginning to be more than a little conscious of his fatigue.

"I just happened to be the first to see him," he said. "They aren't quite wild enough to allow that here, are they?"

"Quien sabe? The girls do not like me! The men do not care," she declared. "Jose took me by surprise, though, or I would have killed him. But who are you, and where did you come from?"

"I have just crossed the border," he replied.

She nodded understandingly.

"Were they after you?"

"Yes! with a warrant for my arrest!"

She patted his hand.

"You are safe now," she whispered. "We care that much for a United States warrant," and she snapped her slim fingers. "You shall stay with us for a time. We will take care of you."

He sighed wearily.

"If I do," he said, "there will be trouble. Wherever I go there is trouble. I have been round the world looking for peace. I shall never find it in this world."

Her eyes filled with tears. There was something hopelessly pathetic in his appearance.

"You shall find it here," she promised.

* * * * *

Back in the camp, a spirit of deviltry had entered once more into Long Jim and his mates. A tactless remark on the part of one of the deputies had set alight once more the smouldering fire of resentment which the cowboys had all the time felt against them. At a word from Long Jim they were taken by surprise and again tied to the wagon.

"These guys ain't got a sufficiency yet, boys. Limber up them guns again. Same order as before. Put a few more petals on them flowers, and I'll trim their eyelashes for them."

The deputies spluttered with rage and fear. Shots rained about them and the canvas of the wagon was riddled. French began to get restless.

"Look here," he said to Laura, "I can't stand this any longer. It don't seem right to have two officers of the law treated like that, any way. I guess I'll have to butt in again."

"Don't," Laura advised bluntly. "You'll get yours if you do."

A yell from one of the deputies clinched the matter. French drew his revolver and advanced into the centre of the little group.

"Say, you fellows," he exclaimed, "you've got to stop this! Those men came here on a legitimate errand and it's your duty to respect them."

Long Jim strolled up to the Inspector.

"Maybe you're right, Mr. French," he remarked, "but—"

With a swoop of his long arm he snatched French's gun away, examined it for a moment, looked at French and shook his head.

"You're too fat, Inspector," he declared sorrowfully, "still too fat. That's what's the matter with you. Another ten minutes' exercise will do you all the good in the world."

A bullet struck the dust a few inches from French's feet. Furious with rage, he found himself once more forced to resort to undignified antics. This time, however, Laura intervened. She walked straight up into the little circle and stood close to French's side, regardless of the levelled guns.

"Look here, Long Jim, or whatever your name is," she protested, "you just call your crowd off and stop this. Undo those two deputies. A joke's a joke, but this has gone far enough. If you don't untie them, I will. Take your choice and get a move on."

Long Jim scratched his chin for a moment.

"Waal," he said, "I guess that what the lady says goes. We ain't often favoured with ladies' society, boys, and I guess when we are we'd better do as we are told. Turn 'em loose, boys."

They abandoned the sport a little reluctantly. Suddenly they all paused to listen. The sound of a horse's slow footfall was heard close at hand. Presently Quest appeared out of the shadows, carrying Lenora in his arms. Laura rushed forward.

"Lenora!" she cried. "Is she hurt?"

Quest laid her tenderly upon the ground.

"We had a spill at the bridge," he explained quickly. "I don't know whether Craig loosened the supports. He got over all right, but it went down under Lenora, who was following, and I had to get her out of the river. Where's the Professor?"

The Professor came ambling down from the tent where he had been lying. He stooped at once over Lenora's still unconscious form.

"Dear me!" he exclaimed. "Dear me! Come, come!"

He passed his hand over her side and made a brief examination.

"Four ribs broken," he pronounced. "It will be a week, at any rate, before we are able to move her. Nothing more serious, so far as I can see, Mr. Quest, but she'll need rest and all the comfort we can give her."

"Say, that's too bad!" Long Jim declared. "If you've got to stay around for a time, though, you can have the tents. We boys can double up anywhere, or bunk on the ground. That's right, ain't it?" he added, turning around to the cowboys.

There was a little grunt of acquiescence. They carried Lenora to the largest of the tents and made her as comfortable as possible. She opened her eyes on the way.

"I am so sorry," she faltered. "It's just my side. It—hurts. How did I get out of the stream?"

"I fished you out," Quest whispered. "Don't talk now. We are going to make you comfortable."

She pressed his hand and closed her eyes again. The Professor returned.

"We'll make the young lady comfortable all right," he assured them cheerfully, "but there's one thing you can make up your minds to. We are here for a week at the least."

They all looked at one another. The Inspector was the only one who preserved an air of cheerfulness, and he was glancing towards Laura.

"Guess we'll have to make the best of it," he murmured.

2.

The girl drew a low stool over to Craig's side. He was sitting in a rough chair tilted back against the adobe wall of the saloon.

"As tired as ever?" she asked, laying her hand upon his for a moment.

He turned his head and looked at her.

"Always tired," he answered listlessly.

She made a little grimace.

"But you are so strange," she protested. "Over the hills there are the steam cars. They would take you to some of our beautiful cities where all is light and gaiety. You are safe here, whatever your troubles may have been. You say that you have money, and if you are lonely," she added, dropping her voice, "you need not go alone."



He patted her hand affectionately but there was something a little forced about the action.

"Child," he said, "it is so hard to make you understand. I might lose myself for a few minutes, it is true, over yonder. Perhaps, even," he added, "you might help me to forget. And then there would be the awakening. That is always the same. Sometimes at night I sleep, and when I sleep I rest, and when my eyes are opened in the morning the weight comes back and sits upon my heart, and the strength seems to pass from my limbs and the will from my brain."

Her eyes were soft and her voice shook a little as she leaned towards him. Something in his helplessness had kindled the protective spirit in her.

"Has life been so terrible for you?" she whispered. "Have you left behind—but no! you never could have been really wicked. You are not very old, are you? Why do you not stand up and be a man? If you have done wrong, then very likely people have done wrong things to you. Why should you brood over these memories? Why—... What are you looking at? Who are these people?"