Numbers had been chalked roughly on the doors. With wetted fingers
he rubbed out the chalk marks on the last six doors, and he had
scarcely finished doing that when Ismail strode in, slamming the
great iron door behind him, jangling a bunch of keys and looking
more than ever like somebody out of the Old Testament.

"Open every door except those whose numbers I have rubbed out!"
King ordered him.

Ismail proceeded to obey as if that were the least improbable order
in all the world. It took him two minutes to select the pass-key
and determine how it worked, then the doors flew open one after
another in quick succession.

"Come out!" he growled. "Come out!--Come out!" although King had
not ordered that.

King went and stood under the center light with his left arm bared.
The prisoners, emerging like dead men out of tombs, blinked at the
bright light--saw him--then the bracelet--and saluted.

"May God be with thee!" growled each of them.

They stood still then, awaiting fresh developments. It did not
seem to occur to any one of them as strange that a British officer
in khaki uniform should be sporting Yasmini's talisman; the thing
was apparently sufficient explanation in itself.

"Ye all know this?" he asked, holding up his wrist. Whose is this?"