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."