surged through her mind. What had been the fate of the unfortunate
caravan leader? Her eyes closed and her throat grew dry.

"There was no need for any murder," he continued sarcastically. "When
you come to know me better you will realise that I do not leave too
much to chance. 'All things are with Allah, blessed be his name.' Good!
But it is well to remember that Allah does not always concern himself
with the affairs of men, and arrange accordingly. If I had left this
affair to chance there might very easily have been, as you suggest,
murder done--though we do not call it murder in the desert. It was very
simple. _Voyons_! You paid Mustafa Ali well to guide you in the
desert. I paid him better to lead you to me. I paid him well enough to
make him content to remove himself from Biskra, where awkward questions
might be asked, to another sphere of usefulness where he is not known,
and where he can build up for himself a new reputation as a caravan
leader."

There was another silence and her hands went groping to her throat. It
had been no chance affair then--no accidental meeting that the Arab
chief had turned to his own account, but an organised outrage that had
been carefully planned from the beginning. From the very outset she had
been a dupe. She ground her teeth with rage. Her suave, subservient
guide had been leading her the whole time, not in the direction that
had been mapped out in Biskra, but towards the man who had bought him
to betray his trust. Mustafa Ali's shifting eyes, his desire to hurry
her from the oasis where they had rested at mid-day, his tone were all
explained. He had acted well. The last touch--the imaginary wound that
had toppled him slowly out of his saddle had been a masterpiece, she
reflected bitterly. Nothing had been omitted to make the attempt a
success. The horse that had been given her to ride was the Sheik's