From his pocket he brought a leather case and from the case a large
and ornate gold locket.

"His picture, monsieur." He pressed the spring and offered Ryder the
miniature. "It was done in France before he returned on that last
trip, and was left with the aunt. It is said to be a good likeness."

Ryder looked down upon the young face presented to his gaze with a
feeling of sympathy for this unlucky searcher of the past who had
left his own secret in the sands he had come to conquer--sympathy
mingled with blank wonder at the insanity which had brought a woman
with it....

McLean couldn't understand a man's doing it.

Jack Ryder couldn't understand a man's _wanting_ to do it. Love to
Ryder was incomprehensible idiocy. Woman, as far as he was
concerned, had never been created. She was still a spectacle, an
historical record, an uncomprehended motive.

"Nice looking chap," he commented briefly, fingering the curious old
case as he handed it back.

"I'll keep up the inquiries," McLean assured them, "but, as I said,
nothing will come of it.... It's been fifteen years. One more grain
lost in the desert of sand.... By luck, you know, you might just
stumble on something, some native who knew the story, but if fever
carried them off and the Arabs rifled their camp, as I fancy,
they'll jolly well keep their mouths shut. No white man will
know.... I don't advise your people to spend much money on the