endless strip of desert and gold-flecked sky visible through the
opening of the tent, but she saw nothing of the undulating sand, nor
the red glory of the setting sun.

"How do you know--all--this?" she whispered with dry lips that
trembled.

"I wished to know. It was quite simple." The answer was given
carelessly, and again the thin thread of smoke drifted across her face.

Her anger flamed up again. "Is it money that you want? Are you holding
me for ransom?" But her scornful voice faltered and died away on the
last word, and it did not need his silence to convince her that it was
no question of ransom. She had only spoken to try and stifle the inner
conviction that grew despite her efforts to crush it. Her hands were
locked together tightly, her eyes still staring out unseeing at the
wonderful sunset. She felt dazed, hopeless, like a fugitive who has
turned into a cul-de-sac, hemmed in on every side; there seemed no way
out, no loophole of escape. She wrung her hands convulsively and a
great shudder shook her. Then in her despair a faint ray of hope came.

"Mustafa Ali, or one of the caravan men may have given the alarm
already in Biskra--if you have not--murdered them all," she whispered
jerkily.

"I have not murdered them all," he rejoined shortly, "but Mustafa Ali
will not give any alarm in Biskra."

"Why?" She tried to keep silent, but the question was forced from her,
and she waited tense for his answer. Tales of ruthless Arab cruelty