uneven, and the man's bare leg showed above the cast-off putties of a
policeman. The coat was an old khaki jacket of a Gippy soldier, and,
being scant of buttons, doubtful linen showed beneath. Above the hook-
nose, once aristocratic, now vulture-like and shrunken like that of
Rameses in his glass case at Ghizeh, was a tarboosh tilting forward over
the eyes, nearly covering the forehead. The figure must have been very
tall once, but it was stooped now, though the height was still well above
medium. Hunted, haunted, ravaged and lost, was the face, and the long
grey moustache, covering the chin almost, seemed to cover an immeasurable
depravity.

Dicky took it all in at a glance, and wondered with a bitter wonder; for
this was an Englishman, and behind him and around him, though not very
near him, were Arabs, Soudanese, and Fellaheen, with sneering yet
apprehensive faces.

As Dicky's hand dropped away from his pistol, the other shot out
trembling, graceful, eager fingers, the one inexpressibly gentlemanly
thing about him.

"Give it to me--quick!" he said, and he threw a backward glance towards
the approaching group--Fielding, the egregious Pasha, and the rest.

Dicky did not hesitate; he passed the pistol over. The Lost One took the
pistol, cocked it, and held it to the head of the waler, which feebly
turned to him in recognition.

"Good-bye, old man!" he said, and fired.

The horse dropped, kicked, struggled once or twice, and was gone.