THE

DESERT HEALER

BY

E. M. Hull

Author of “The Sheik”

McCLELLAND & STEWART, LIMITED

PUBLISHERS TORONTO

Copyright Canada 1923 by

McCLELLAND & STEWART, Limited

Printed in Canada

Press of The Hunter-Rose Co., Limited

THE DESERT HEALER

CHAPTER I

The slanting rays of the afternoon sun, unusually powerful for the time of year, lay warmly on the southern slopes of a tiny spur of the Little Atlas Mountains, glowing redly on the patches of bare earth and naked rock cropping out between the scrubby undergrowth that straggled sparsely up the hill-side, and flickering through the leaves of a clump of olive trees huddled at its base where three horses stood tethered, lazily switching at the troublesome flies with their long tails and shifting their feet uneasily from time to time.

Ten miles away to the westward lay Blidah, Europeanised and noisy, but here was the deep stillness and solitude—though not the arid desolation—of the open desert. The silence was broken only by the monotonous cooing of pigeons and the low murmur of voices.

At a little distance from the picketed horses, out in the full sunshine, a man lay on his back on the soft ground apparently asleep, his hands clasped under his head, his face almost hidden by a sun helmet beneath the brim of which protruded grotesquely a disreputable age-black pipe which even in sleep his teeth held firmly. There were amongst William Chalmers’ patients and intimate acquaintances those who affirmed positively that that foul old meerschaum—treasured relic of his hospital days—ranked second in his affections only to the adored wife who was sitting now near his recumbent figure. Alert and youthful looking in spite of her grey hairs, she lounged comfortably against a sun warmed rock talking animatedly yet softly to the third member of the party, a well set up man of soldierly appearance who sprawled full length at her feet. There was a certain definite resemblance between the two, a similarity of speech and gesture, that proclaimed a near relationship.

Mrs. Chalmers broke off in the middle of a sentence to flap her gauntlet gloves at a swarm of persistent flies. “All the same, I think it’s perfectly disgraceful that you are still a bachelor, Micky,” she said, with emphatic cousinly candour, resuming an argument which had raged for the last half hour. Major Meredith grinned with perfect good humour.

“Haven’t time for matrimony,” he answered lazily, “too busy watching our wily brothers over the Border. And besides,” with a provocative sidelong glance, “marriage is a lottery. We can’t all expect to have Bill’s luck.”

Mrs. Chalmers wrinkled her nose at him disgustedly. “That’s a cliché,” she said with fine scorn, ignoring the implied compliment, “it merely means that you haven’t yet met the right woman. However—” she laughed mischievously—“there’s still hope for you. A year at home after nearly ten years of exile will probably make you change your mind. It’s a pity you didn’t take your leave sooner, there were some charming girls here last winter. Unfortunately this year’s sample is not recommendable, there is scarcely a really nice girl in the place—always excepting Marny Geradine, and she’s married already—poor child.”

“Why ‘poor child?’ ” asked the soldier, his cousin’s sudden change of tone seeming to call for some comment. “Because—” Mrs. Chalmers paused frowningly, “oh, well, you haven’t seen Lord Geradine or you wouldn’t ask,” she went on soberly, “he’s been away on a shooting trip since you’ve been here—and the air of Algiers has been consequently cleaner,” she added with a little shiver.

Major Meredith hoisted his long limbs up into a sitting position. “A case of a misfit marriage?” he suggested.

“Marriage!” echoed Mrs. Chalmers scornfully, “it isn’t a marriage, it’s a crime. It makes my blood boil to think of it. And yet I hardly know them. He’s impossible, and she is the shyest, most reserved young woman I have ever met. I’d give a great deal to be able to help her, she seems so lonely and there is tragedy staring at you out of her eyes. But of course one can’t do anything. She isn’t the kind of person who makes confidants. I’ve blundered in pretty often during my life when it hasn’t been my business, but I simply shouldn’t dare to speak to Lady Geradine of her affairs—though I am old enough to be her mother. Ugh! let’s talk of something less revolting,” she said hastily, a trace of huskiness in her voice. And for a time she sat silent, staring absently in front of her with eyes that had become very wistful and tender. Then with a shrug and a half sigh she turned again eagerly to her companion. “There is a great deal that wants putting right in the world, Micky,” she said with ungrammatical decisiveness, “but I’m not going to spoil a perfect afternoon by moralising. It has been jolly, hasn’t it? I thought you would like this little valley. So few people seem to know of it, no special inducement to bring them here except peace and quietness which most of the folk wintering in Algiers don’t seem particularly to hanker after. We found it years ago and have camped here often, a haven of refuge when life was especially strenuous or perplexing. It is sad to think that it is our last visit and that in a few weeks we shall have shaken the dust of Algeria off our feet. Five years, Micky, five years that Bill has been marking time in this Back of Beyond because of my stupid lungs. But they are all right now, thank God, and we are off to America as soon as may be to investigate some new nerve treatment Bill is interested in. And when he has picked the brains of his transatlantic confrères we shall come home to end our days in Harley Street in an odour of sanctity and general stuffiness. Won’t London be simply horrid after years of fresh air and open spaces? So, you see, you only just caught us in time. If your leave had been delayed you would have missed us, and I did want you to see our Algerian home. It’s been a hectic fortnight, but I’ve enjoyed every minute of it, and I think we’ve managed to show you all the sights of Algiers and its immediate surroundings. But I do regret one thing—I wish you could have seen our Mystery-man. He is quite a feature of the place. An Englishman who lives like an Arab—you needn’t pull a face, Micky, I don’t mean that he has ‘gone native’ or anything horrid of that kind, he is much too dignified. But he lives in a sort of splendid isolation in the loveliest villa in Mustapha, with a retinue like a Chief’s. And though he is tremendously popular with the French officers and all the important Sheiks who come into Algiers he pointedly avoids his fellow countrymen. And he won’t speak to or even look at a woman! He wears Arab dress most of the time and would pass for a native anywhere. He lives for months together in the desert and descends on Algiers at irregular intervals. One hears that he is in the town, and glimpses him occasionally stalking along with his head in the air rather like a supercilious camel, or riding like a hurricane through the streets in approved Arab style, but that is all that the English community ever see of him. And he has obviously heaps of money—and it’s a gorgeous villa. He might be such an acquisition to the place, but, as it is, he is merely an intriguing personality who is ‘wropt in mystery,’ as old Nannie used to say. Needless to add that in a place like this, where we all discuss our neighbours, he is the subject of endless speculation. But nobody really knows anything about him.”

A faint chuckle came from behind Doctor Chalmers’ big helmet. “I’m sorry to contradict you, Mollie, but that is not strictly accurate,” he said sleepily. His wife sat up with a jerk. “Who knows?” she challenged.

“Well—I do, for one,” replied Doctor Chalmers coolly.

“You know, Bill—and you’ve never said. How like a man! Really, you are the most exasperating creatures on earth. Fancy having that pearl of information up your sleeve—I’m getting mixed up in my metaphors, but never mind—and withholding it from the partner of your joys and sorrows. I shouldn’t have passed it on if it was a confidence, you know that very well. But since you have admitted so much you can soothe my outraged feelings by imparting a little more.”

Doctor Chalmers laughed and stretched lazily. “Can’t be done,” he replied succinctly.

“Why not? I wouldn’t tell a soul, and Micky is only a bird of passage so it can’t possibly matter what he hears. Don’t be tiresome, Bill, expound.”

But the doctor shook his head. “My dear Mollie,” he expostulated, fingering the old pipe tenderly, “a confidence is a confidence and I can’t break it simply to satisfy your curiosity, natural though it may be. And hasn’t the poor devil been discussed enough? How he lives and what he chooses to do in the desert is, after all, entirely his own affair—nobody else’s business.”

“But, Bill, one hears such queer stories—”

“Queer stories be hanged, m’dear. A silly lot of idiotic gossip, this place is rotten with it. Some fool of a busybody starts a rumour without a tithe of foundation to it and it’s all over the town as gospel truth the next day. Carew’s mode of life, his antipathy to women, and his obvious sympathy with the Arabs make him a bit peculiar. Just because the poor chap has the bad taste to ignore your charming sex all the women have got their knives into him. I bet the queer stories you speak of emanate from your blessed feminine tea parties. Trust a woman to invent a mystery—”

“But, Bill, he is mysterious.”

“Rubbish, Mollie. He prefers to make his friends amongst the French and he hates women—that’s the sum total of his crimes as far as I’m aware. Peculiar, if you like, but certainly not mysterious. And as to the last indictment—” the doctor laughed and winked unblushingly at Major Meredith, “—personally I call him a sensible chap to mix only with his own broader minded and more enlightened sex—ouch!” he grunted, as his wife’s helmet landed with a thud on his chest.

“Bill, you’re horrid. Men gossip just as much as women.”

Doctor Chalmers returned her helmet with an ironical bow. “They may do, my dear,” he said with sudden gravity, “but in Algiers it is not the men who gossip about Carew. And for the short time we remain in this hot-bed of intrigue you will oblige me by contradicting, on my authority, any silly stories you may hear about him. He’s a friend of mine. I value his friendship, and I won’t have him adversely discussed in my house.”

Mrs. Chalmers bowed her head to the unexpected storm she had raised. “I’m sorry, dear,” she said contritely, “I didn’t know he was really a friend. In all the years we’ve lived here you’ve hardly ever mentioned him. I do think men are the queerest things,” she added in a puzzled voice that made her companions laugh. Her husband rolled over and began to fill his pipe. “There are still a few little secrets I keep from the wife of my bosom,” he murmured teasingly, “but, seriously, Mollie, hands off Carew.”

“Very well, dear,” she replied with surprising meekness. And for some time she sat silent with knitted brows, poking the sand absently with the handle of her whip. Then she spoke abruptly—“But there’s no smoke without fire, Bill. There must be some foundation for the stories that are told about him. He was divorced or something unpleasant of the kind, wasn’t he?”

“He may have been,” replied the doctor indifferently, pressing the tobacco down into the bowl of his pipe with a blunt thumb, “I don’t know—and I’m afraid I don’t care. I take people as I find them, and Gervas Carew is one of the whitest, cleanest men I have ever met.”

Major Meredith looked up with a sudden start.

“Gervas Carew,” he said quickly, “Sir Gervas Carew?”

The doctor shrugged. “I believe so,” he said guardedly, “though he doesn’t seem to have any use for the title. He drops it here in Algeria. And if you have anything detrimental to say about him I’d rather not hear it,” he added shortly, with a sudden flicker of anger in his sleepy blue eyes.

But Major Meredith was obviously not listening.

“Gervas Carew—after all these years!” he ejaculated, “so your Mystery-man, Mollie, turns out to be Gervas Carew. Gad, what a small place the world is! Poor old Gervas—of all people!”

Mrs. Chalmers’ eyes danced with excitement. She laid an impatient hand on her cousin’s shoulder, and shook him vigorously. “If you don’t say something more explicit in a minute, Micky, I shall scream. It’s no good sitting there looking as if you had seen a ghost and murmuring tragically ‘poor old Gervas,’ you’ve simply got to explain. And if Bill doesn’t want to listen he can go and saddle the horses. It’s time we made a move anyhow.”

Meredith turned slowly and looked at her through narrowing eyelids. “Give a dog a bad name, and hang him,” he said with a touch of contempt in his voice. “From what you say, Mollie, Algiers appears to have been hanging Gervas Carew pretty thoroughly and, as he was my best friend once, I think it is up to me to explain. You needn’t go, Bill,” he added hastily as the doctor heaved himself on to his feet with a smothered word of profanity. “You’re seldom wrong in a diagnosis, old man, and you haven’t made a mistake this time. It’s not a long story, nor, unfortunately, an uncommon one. Carew and I were chums at Rugby, and until I got my commission and went to India. When he was about twenty-five, shortly after his father’s death and he had succeeded to the title, he married. The girl, who was a few years younger than himself, was the worst kind of Society production, artificial to her finger tips. I stayed with them on my first home leave and hated her at sight. But poor old Gervas was blindly in love. He worshipped the ground she walked on. She was beautiful, of course, one of those pale-complexioned, copper-haired women who are liable to sudden and tremendous passion—but Gervas hadn’t touched her. Mentally and morally he was miles above her. She was as incapable of appreciating the fineness of his character as he was of suspecting the falseness of hers. His love didn’t content her and, though she was clever enough to hide it from him, she flirted shamelessly with every man who came to the house. She craved for adulation. Anybody was fair game to her. She tried it on with me before I’d been there half a day—but I hadn’t served five years’ apprenticeship in India for nothing and she ended by hating me as thoroughly as I hated her. Then the South African war broke out and I did all I could to get to the front but they sent me back to the Frontier. And Gervas, who had always wanted to be a soldier and had had to content himself with the Yeomanry, was in the seventh heaven, poor devil, and took a troop out to the Cape, largely composed of men off his own estate. He was invalided back to England after nine months to find that his wife had consoled herself in his absence with an Austrian Count, of sorts, and had cleared out with the blighter, leaving a delicate baby behind her. The child died the night Gervas reached home. I heard what happened from a mutual friend. For a few weeks he was to all intents and purposes out of his mind. He was in a very weak state from his wound, and the double shock of his wife’s faithlessness and the baby’s death—he was devoted to the little chap—was too much for him. Then he took up life again, but he was utterly changed. He divorced the woman that she might marry the man she had gone off with and six months afterwards he disappeared.

“That’s ten or twelve years ago and I’ve never been able to get into communication with him since. That’s Gervas Carew’s story, Mollie.

“I can’t give any explanation of his avoidance of English people except that he was always a sensitive sort of chap. But I think that his present attitude towards women, at any rate, is understandable. There was one woman in the world for him—and she let him down.”

There was a long silence after the soldier stopped speaking. Mrs. Chalmers sat very subdued, blinking away the tears that had risen in her eyes.

“I wish I’d known before, Micky. I feel a beast,” she said at last with regretful fervour.

“You might well,” growled her husband unsympathetically, and stalked away to the horses.

Major Meredith prepared to follow, but lingered for a moment beside his cousin who had also risen to her feet.

“I need hardly add that what I’ve told you is entirely between ourselves, Mollie. I only wanted to put Carew right with you and Bill. What the rest of Algiers chooses to think doesn’t matter a tinker’s curse. I wish I could have seen the poor old chap, but as I’m off tomorrow that is hardly probable. Still, I’ve located him, which is more than I ever expected to do.”

Mrs. Chalmers followed him thoughtfully to the clump of olive trees where the doctor with recovered good temper was busily saddling the horses.

They mounted and moved off leisurely down the steep side of the hill, picking a careful way between rocks and scrub and cactus bushes until they reached a narrow track winding in and out at the foot of the mountain a few feet above the bed of the tiny ravine that separated it from the adjoining range.

The track was wide enough only for two to ride abreast and the doctor forged ahead leaving his wife to follow with her cousin.

Mrs. Chalmers made no further reference to the story she had heard, guessing that Meredith would not care to speak of it again, but chatted instead of the neighbourhood through which they were passing.

“These hills are a maze,” she explained with a sweeping gesture of her whip that effectually upset the hitherto irreproachable behaviour of the horse she was riding. She reined him back with difficulty.

“I forgot I mustn’t do that. Captain André told me he couldn’t bear to have a whip whiffled about his ears,” she said laughingly. “Some of the gorges are wider than this, perfect camping grounds,” she continued, after she had soothed her mount’s ruffled sensibilities. “Very often a Sheik will camp here on his way to Algiers. Extraordinarily interesting they are, especially the ones who come from the far south—the wildest creatures, with hordes of fierce retainers who look as if they would think nothing of murdering one just for the sheer fun of it. But they are always very nice to us—they like the English. I am ashamed to say I have learned very little Arabic but when we meet them I smile and say ‘Anglaise’ and they get quite excited and salaam and grin and chatter like magpies. Then, again, we come here and may ride for miles and never see a soul for days together.”

“That is what one thinks on the Frontier but the beggars are there all the time, right enough,” said Meredith with a quick smile. “You will be riding over a bit of country that you wouldn’t think could afford cover for a cat and ping goes a bullet past your head. If they weren’t such thundering bad shots I, for one, should have been a goner years ago.” He laughed light-heartedly, and Mrs. Chalmers glanced at him curiously, marvelling, as she had marvelled frequently in the last fortnight, at the hazardous life that is some men’s portion and the fatalistic indifference it usually engenders. During his short visit she had listened with wonder and amazement to her cousin’s reluctant account of his work on the Border.

To Meredith it was the Great Game. Now, quite suddenly, she wondered what it would mean to the woman he might make his wife.

“I don’t believe, after all, Micky, that men like you ought to marry,” she said pensively. Meredith laughed at the patently regretful tone of her voice, for her matchmaking proclivities were notorious.

“I’m quite sure of it,” he replied promptly, and unwillingly Mrs. Chalmers was obliged to laugh with him.

But further conversation became for the time impossible. The rough track they were following grew narrower and less perceptible until it suddenly vanished altogether and the horses slithered and slipped down to the rocky bed of the dry watercourse at the bottom of the defile. The pass was bearing steadily towards the south and Doctor Chalmers who was some little distance ahead of them had already disappeared from sight behind a jutting angle of rock where the hill curved abruptly. Following in single file they reached the sharp bend and rounding it close under the stark cliff face, emerged into a wider, less rugged valley that stretched on the one hand far up into the mountains and on the other led to open country. A quarter of a mile away, at the entrance of the valley, Doctor Chalmers was waiting for them. Scrambling out of the river bed they spurred their horses, racing to join him, and as they neared he turned in the saddle beckoning vigorously. “You’re in luck, Micky,” he shouted, “there’s your man.” And following his pointing finger they saw a small party of horsemen galloping towards the mountains. The leader, who was riding slightly in advance of his escort, was distinguished from his white-clad followers by an embroidered blue cloth burnous that billowed round him in swelling folds. With a little thrill of excitement Mrs. Chalmers glanced quickly at her cousin, and decided for the second time that day that men were queer creatures. They never did what one expected them to do. A little more than half-an-hour ago Micky had expressed a great wish to meet again the friend of his youth. The wish unexpectedly fulfilled, it was to be supposed that his inward gratification would take some outward and visible form. He sat instead motionless on his fretting horse, scowling at the approaching horsemen, his underlip sucked in beneath his trim brown moustache, in very obvious hesitation.

It was Doctor Chalmers who rode forward and waved his hand with a welcoming shout. And for a moment it seemed as if his greeting was going to pass unrecognised. The horsemen were nearly abreast of them, riding at a tremendous pace, another moment they would have swept past. Then, with a powerful jerk that sent the bright bay straight up into the air spinning high on his hind legs, the leader checked his mount suddenly. It was a common trick among the Arabs which Mrs. Chalmers had often witnessed, but she never watched it without a quickening heartbeat, and she gave a little sigh of relief now as the horse came down without the ugly backward tremble she had seen once and dreaded to see again. She was conscious of a feeling of extreme embarrassment at the near presence of the man whose mysterious personality she had discussed freely with her circle of acquaintances during the last five years, but who now appeared to her in a new and totally different light. Her warm impulsive heart had been touched by Micky Meredith’s story and a hot wave of discomfort passed over her as she recollected the idle gossip she had both countenanced and participated in. She determined to delay the inevitable meeting with the much criticised Mystery-man until the first greeting and explanations between the two old friends were over. Leaving Meredith to go alone, she lingered behind under pretext of re-arranging her habit, and for some minutes she bent over her perfectly adjusted safety skirt pulling and patting it into further order while her fidgety horse wheeled and backed impatiently at the forced stand. Then she rode forward with unusual diffidence to join the three men who, dismounted, were deep in conversation. They drew apart at her coming and Meredith effected the necessary introduction.

In response to Mrs. Chalmers’ murmured greeting the tall picturesque-looking man who had turned almost reluctantly towards her replied briefly and bowed with grave, unsmiling aloofness that seemed consistent with the Arab robes he wore so naturally. She had a swift glimpse of a lean brown clean-shaven face, of a pair of dark blue sombre eyes that did not quite meet her own, and then her husband’s genial voice broke the threatening silence.

“Sir Gervas is camping in the neighborhood, Mollie. He wants Micky to wait over until the later train. We shall have to push on as I promised to be in Algiers early this evening,” he explained, preparing to remount. “Your train leaves Blidah at eleven, Micky,” he added. “And, Carew, the horse is André’s. See that he gets back all right to the cavalry barracks, will you? Ready, Mollie? Then take hold of that beast of yours. We shall have to run for it.”

As the Doctor and his wife cantered off, Meredith looked after their retreating figures with a gleam of amusement in his eyes. Bill’s diplomacy had been worthy of a greater cause. Then he turned to his companion.

“That’s a dam’ good fellow,” he said emphatically, “one in a billion.”

But the silent man beside him did not at the moment seem inclined to discuss Doctor Chalmers’ merits.

Nodding briefly he signed to his servants to bring up the spirited bay that had been removed from the proximity of the other horses.

And as they rode along together Meredith tried in vain to trace in this grave, taciturn individual some resemblance to the gay, happy-go-lucky Gervas Carew of long ago. He wondered, if alone, he would have even known him. Carew had apparently recognised him at once, but the recognition was easy, for the passing years had made no great alteration in him; while to Meredith the face of his old friend had become the face of a stranger, hardened, remoulded almost, until even the contour seemed different. Other changes too became gradually evident. The restless impatience that Meredith remembered had given place to a calm imperturbability that was more oriental than occidental. There was a dignity and stateliness in his bearing that contrasted forcibly with his former boyish impulsiveness. Of the old Gervas Carew there was clearly nothing left, and the new Gervas seemed reluctant to reveal himself. The threads, too, of the early acquaintance, broken for so long, were curiously difficult to pick up but Micky Meredith, trained to waiting, was content to let the matter take its course. Enough that a desire had been shown for his company, the rest would follow.

Once only during the half-hour ride did Carew open his mouth. He turned and looked critically at Meredith’s mount. “Shall we let them out?” he said slowly, with a certain hesitation in his voice as if his mother-tongue came unnaturally. “André’s horses have a reputation.”

And as they raced neck and neck towards the north over the broken country that bordered the foothills they were skirting, Meredith found a certain measure of satisfaction in the fact that one interest, at least, had survived the general upheaval. Carew had always been a horseman and a lover of horses. More than ever did he seem so now. And as the soldier looked at the magnificent creature his companion was riding, and, glancing behind him, found the escort thundering close at their heels, he decided that it was not only the courteous cavalry captain at Blidah whose stud must have a reputation in the country. It was one bond of sympathy remaining, he reflected, and sat down to ride as he had rarely ridden in his life.

His borrowed horse responded gallantly to the effort demanded of him, but the pace was punishing and the animal’s satiny neck grew dark and seamed with sweat as he strained to keep up with the bay that showed no sign of distress and seemed to be rather checked than urged by his rider. And with the perspiration pouring down his own face Meredith was not sorry when a sudden curve in the hillside revealed a deserted fruit farm with Carew’s camp scattered amongst the orange trees.

The big double tent of the owner was pitched at some distance from those of its followers, lying in an open clearing where once the farm buildings must have stood. And all about were horses and camels, tethered or wandering at will, and a small army of Arabs languidly fulfilling the various duties of the camp or squatting idly on their heels engaged in endless argument.

But the return of the master roused his retainers to sudden and spontaneous activity, and Meredith noted with a smile of approval the evident signs of discipline and authority. Waiting grooms who had been lounging near the big tent sprang to the horses’ heads and the soldier slid out of the saddle with a grunt of relief and mopped his forehead with a gaudy silk handkerchief. “Do you usually ride at that pace?” he enquired, laughing.

Carew turned from fondling the big bay that was nozzling him affectionately. “Pretty usually,” he answered, “it’s a bad habit one catches in the desert. But I’ve always wanted to try Suliman against that grey of André’s. He had him beaten from the start,” he added with a faint smile, “come have a drink.” And he led the way under the lance-propped awning into the cool dimness of the tent.

Meredith glanced about with interest. The costly but sparse furnishings were almost entirely of the country; a small camp table and a solitary deck chair, the sole concessions to European taste, looked incongruous in conjunction with the low inlaid stools and gay brocaded silk mats that were purely Arab. A wide divan, heaped with heavy cushions and covered with a couple of leopard skins, stood in the centre of the room. Looped back curtains of gold-embroidered silk hung before the entrance to the sleeping apartment.

At first sight Meredith thought the tent empty. But as his eyes grew accustomed to the soft light he saw, in a far corner, the slender figure of a child sitting on the ground swaying gently to and fro, his handsome little face upturned in rapt devotion as he crooned softly to himself while the beads of a long rosary slipped through his small brown fingers. The thick rugs on the floor deadened the sound of their footsteps and for a moment the entrance of the two men passed unnoticed. Then Carew moved and his foot struck sharply against a small brass bowl that had fallen from a nearby stool. At the sound the lad stopped swaying and sat rigid as if listening intently, his face turned eagerly towards them. Then with a glad cry he tossed the rosary away and scrambling to his feet came flying across the tent with outstretched hands. A thick cushion that in its bright-hued covering appeared perfectly obvious against the dark rug lay directly in his path but he blundered straight into it and fell headlong before Carew could catch him. And as Meredith watched the big man bending over the little white-clad figure and saw the stern lines of his face change into a wonderful tenderness, and heard the sudden gentleness of his voice as he murmured in soft quick Arabic, he recollected with a feeling of acute dismay the “queer stories” that Mollie Chalmers had referred to. Was this, then, the solution of Carew’s protracted sojourns in the desert? To the Anglo-Indian with his deep-rooted prejudices the supposition was repulsive. It was to him little short of a crime. And yet was there not perhaps an excuse? Sudden pity contended with repulsion as he remembered Carew’s devotion to his tiny son, and the tragedy that had robbed him of his child. Had the ardent desire for parenthood that had formerly been so strong in him risen even against racial restrictions and the misogyny with which he was now accredited?

Meredith was relieved when his disturbing thoughts were interrupted. The boy was on his feet again, talking excitedly, but Carew silenced him with a hand on his shoulder.

“There is a guest, Saba,” he said in French, “salute the English lord, and go bid Hosein hasten with the cooling drink.”

Suddenly shy the boy moved forward, bending his supple little figure in a deep salaam. Then drawing himself erect, he lifted his face to Meredith’s with a curiously uncertain movement. And looking down into the beautiful dark eyes raised to his the soldier saw the reason for that hasty tumble and an involuntary exclamation escaped him. He looked enquiringly at his host.

Carew nodded. “Yes, he’s blind,” he said in English, “but you needn’t pity him. He has never known anything different and he is a thoroughly happy little imp.” And drawing the boy to him with a quick caress he set him with his face towards the door and watched him grope his way from the tent.

Then, pulling forward the deck chair, he placed cigarettes beside his guest. From behind a cloud of smoke Meredith spoke with obvious constraint. “I’m awfully sorry—” he began awkwardly, and something in his voice made Carew turn quickly to look at him. For a moment his sombre eyes rested on the soldier’s embarrassed face, then he shook his head with a grave smile that had in it a trace of bitterness.

“It’s not what you think,” he said evenly, “though I admit the thought is natural. He is not mine—sometimes I wish to God he were. He’s only a waif picked up in the desert, five or six hundred miles away in the south, there. I found him six years ago, when I was helping to clean up an Arab raid, lying across his dead mother’s body and whimpering like a hungry kitten. He wasn’t more than a year old. I’ve had him ever since. I don’t think I could get on without the little chap now. He’s an interest, and fills up my time when I’m not otherwise occupied—fills it pretty completely, too, for he is as sharp as a needle and, when the mood takes him, as keen on mischief as any boy with the full use of his eyes. But tell me about yourself. Are you still on the Frontier?”

And Meredith, keenly anxious to renew the old intimacy, let himself be drawn and talked of his life on the Indian Border as he had never talked of it before. Baldly and jerkily at first and then with increasing ease he spoke of the years of arduous work that had claimed his whole time and thought; of perilous journeys and months passed in disguise amongst the savage northern tribes, of hairbreadth escapes and strange experiences, of periods of so-called leave which to the man intent on his job and absorbed in his occupation had only meant work in another form.

For an hour or more his quiet voice went on until the lengthening shadows deepened into blackness and the tent grew dark and obscure, until Carew, sitting Arab fashion on the divan, was almost invisible and only the glowing end of his cigarette revealed his presence. And Meredith—the first plunge made—found him curiously easy to talk to, curiously knowledgeable too. From one or two comments he let fall Meredith was inclined to believe that the Watching Game was no new one to him and the knowledge made his own tale less difficult to tell.

He stopped at last and groped for the matches on the stool beside him. “That about lets me out,” he said, as he lit a cigarette. Carew rose and going to the tent door clapped his hands. “You’re doing a big work, Micky,” he said as he came slowly through the gloom. “You’ll end on the Indian Council if you don’t take care,” he added with almost the old bantering note in his voice.

“If I don’t end with a bullet through my head, which is much more probable,” replied Meredith with a quick laugh, blinking at the lighted lamps that were being brought into the tent.

During the dinner that followed the conversation was mainly of Algeria. But though Carew discussed the country and its conditions, its people and the sport it afforded, of his own life there he said nothing. Neither did he refer to the old days when their friendship had meant so much to each. The past was evidently a sealed book that he had no intention of reopening. A tentative remark hazarded by Meredith met with no response and it was not until later when they were sitting out in the darkness under the awning that the soldier put the question he had been trying to ask all evening. They had sat for some time in silence, smoking, looking across the moonlit plain, listening to the subdued noises of the camp behind them and to the faint rhythmical thump of a tom-tom far off amongst the orange trees. A tiny breeze drifting, perfume laden, across their faces made Meredith think suddenly of the scented gardens of Kashmere. He twisted in his chair to get a better view of the starry heavens, and blurted out his question.

“Why didn’t you write, old man?”

For a long time there was no answer and he mentally kicked himself for a blundering fool. Then Carew’s deep voice, deeper even than usual, came out of the darkness. “I couldn’t. I tried once—but there seemed nothing to say. I hoped you would understand.”

Meredith moved uncomfortably. “I was—damned sorry,” he muttered gruffly. Carew lit a fresh cigarette slowly.

“You needn’t waste any sympathy on me, Micky,” he said with a sudden hard laugh. “I was a fool once—but I learnt my lesson—thoroughly.” There was another long silence. Then Meredith asked abruptly: “Why Algeria?”

Carew shrugged. “I had to go somewhere. The house—its associations were a hell I wasn’t strong enough to stand. So I played the coward’s part and ran away. My people used to winter in Algiers when I was a boy. I liked the country. It seemed the natural place to come to, somehow.” He paused. When he spoke again it was in a voice that was new to Meredith. “It’s a wonderful place, the desert, Micky,” he said dreamily, “it gets you in the end—if you go far enough, and stay long enough. It’s got me all right. I don’t suppose I shall ever leave it now. I come into Algiers sometimes, but never for very long. Always I go back to it. It holds me as nothing else has ever held me. The mystery of it, the charm of it—always new, never the same, changing from day to day. And its moods, my God, Micky, its moods! The peace of heaven one moment and the fury of hell let loose the next. Cruel but beautiful, pitiless but fascinating. And, somehow, one forgets the cruelty and only the beauty remains—the beauty of its wonderful solitudes, its marvellous emptiness.”

“And being there—what do you do?” Meredith had no wish to appear inquisitive but for the last few minutes he had been trying, unsuccessfully, to fit his old friend into the new setting that seemed so incongruous. Gervas and solitude! To Meredith, remembering the perpetual house parties at Royal Carew, the crowds of pleasure-seeking, sport-loving men and women with whom the genial host of those old days had surrounded himself, it appeared a thing incredible. And again he asked with growing perplexity: “What do you do?” and wondered if Carew would consign him to the devil. But the retort he half expected did not ensue. “What do I do?” repeated Carew slowly. “That was the question I asked myself when I came to Algeria, when I seemed to have come to the end of everything—‘what shall I do.’ My first trip into the desert settled that quickly enough. I had always been interested in the Arabs—I spoke the language as early as I spoke English—but I only knew the Arabs of the towns. So I went down into the south to see the real life of the desert. I met some of the old Sheiks who used to come into Algiers when I was a boy and who still remembered my father. They made it easy for me and passed me on into districts where otherwise I could never have penetrated, and I saw more than I had ever hoped to see. I started my wanderings with no higher motive than curiosity—and a desire to get away from my own thoughts. It had never occurred to me that up till then I had led an utterly purposeless life, that not a soul in the world was the better for my being in it. But out there in the desert the crying need I found forced me to think, for the reckless waste of life and the ghastly unnecessary suffering I saw appalled me. I knew that one man alone could not do much—but he could do something. It didn’t take me long to make up my mind. The old life was over. I wanted a new life that wouldn’t give me time to think, that would give me opportunity to help the people I had professed to be interested in. I went to Paris and studied medicine, specializing in surgery, and took my degree. Afterwards I put in six months with a man in Switzerland, a brute—but a wizard with the knife, and then came back to Algeria. That’s what I do, Micky.”

Meredith drew a deep breath. “And a dam’ fine thing, too,” he said heartily. And reaching out a long arm he gripped the other’s shoulder for a moment with a pressure that was painful. “So that’s what you do in the desert when you vanish for months at a time, is it?” he said slowly, with a curious expression of relief in his voice and a feeling of self-disgust as he thought of the suspicions that had been forced upon him earlier in the evening.

“It isn’t all plain sailing, I suppose?” he suggested.

“Far from it,” replied Carew, “but it depends on the district, of course. Usually the beggars are grateful enough and I go pretty much where I please. But they are a naturally suspicious people and there are some places I can’t get into at any price. They think my work is a pretext and that I am a spy of the Government.”

“And are you?”

“Officially, no. But sometimes I see and hear things I think the Government should know—it’s a difficult country to administer—and at times the Government make use of my knowledge. I have acted as intermediary more than once in negotiations with some of the outlying tribes where it would be impossible to send a regularly accredited Agent without a regiment to back him up—and that usually ends in fighting which the Government try to avoid. There’s unrest enough in the south without stirring up any more trouble,” he added, turning to speak to a tall, saturnine-looking Arab who had suddenly approached with a soft murmur of apology.

The shrill sequel of a stallion and the trampling of hoofs made Meredith realise the reason for the interruption.

“Time up?” he said regretfully, following Carew into the tent. “By jove, it’s late!” he added, glancing at his watch, “can we get into Blidah by eleven?”

“Not by the way the Chalmers brought you,” replied Carew with a faint smile, buckling the clasp of the heavy burnous his servant folded about his shoulders. The same escort that had ridden with him earlier in the day was waiting but he dismissed them and alone the two men rode out into the moonlit night. For a time they did not speak. Carew had apparently reached the limit of his confidences and Meredith was in no mood to break the silence. It had been a curious meeting, a curious renewal of an old friendship, but the soldier was left with an uncomfortable feeling of doubt whether it would not have been kinder if no reminder of his early life had been brought to disturb the peace that, seemingly, his old friend had found in the desert. His presence must have vividly awakened in Carew memories of the past. For how much did the past still count with him? Did he never regret the fine old property in England where generations of Carews had lived since the days of the Virgin Queen whose visit during a royal progress had given the house its name? Meredith had many pleasant recollections of Royal Carew and the thought of the stately house he had known so full of life and happiness standing now empty and forlorn in the midst of its beautiful park gave him a feeling of sadness.

“Will you never go back, Gervas?” he asked involuntarily.

“Go back—where?”

“To Royal Carew.”

Carew shook his head. “I told you I had done with the old life,” he said rather wearily. “Royal Carew belongs to the past—and the past is dead. And I couldn’t very well go back now, if I wanted to. I let my cousin have the place. He is my heir, it would have come to him eventually. It was better he should go there while he was still young enough to enjoy it. It’s a damned poor game waiting for dead men’s shoes,” he added with a short laugh.

They were galloping now over undulating country where the crests of the gently swelling hillocks were almost as light as day and the tiny intervening valleys lay like pools of dark, still water. As they reached the summit of a rather larger hill than they had yet encountered, Carew slackened speed with a word of warning.

“There is a deserted village in the valley,” he said, pointing down into the darkness, “be careful how you go, it’s a confusing place at night. And if anything happens—sit tight and leave the talking to me,” he added significantly. And as he spurred the bay a half length in advance Meredith saw his hand go to the silk shawl that was swathed about his waist. A deserted village—but Carew was reaching for his revolver. With a grin Meredith took a firmer grip of Captain André’s grey. He had passed through similar deserted villages in India.

“Heave ahead,” he said cheerily, and followed his companion closely down the long slope.

The valley was shallower than others they had traversed and here and there a shaft of moonlight cut through the murky gloom. They were on the village before Meredith realised its nearness, and as they threaded the empty streets at a slow canter he looked keenly about him with a slight feeling of pleasurable excitement. But no sound broke the stillness and no furtive figures lurking among the ruined huts appeared to justify Carew’s warning. Then the grey stumbled badly on a heap of rubble lying across the road and until they were clear of the village he gave his whole attention to his borrowed horse. But when they were speeding across the plain once more with the lights of Blidah faint in the distance he turned to Carew with a look of enquiry. “What might have happened?” he asked curiously.

“Anything—murder, probably, if you had been alone.”

Meredith chuckled at the casual tone. “Healthy spot for a midnight ride!”

“It saves three miles,” replied Carew calmly.

And Meredith flung back his head and laughed like a boy.

CHAPTER II

For a few moments after the train that was carrying Major Meredith back to Algiers had pulled jerkily out of the station, Carew lingered on the deserted ill-lit platform. Then, acknowledging with a curt nod the half-caste stationmaster’s obsequious greeting, he strode leisurely to where the horses were waiting in the care of a Kabyle lad he had picked out from among the heterogeneous collection of loafers lounging before the station entrance. He signed to the boy to follow him with Captain André’s horse and trotted Suliman slowly towards the town. Entering by the Es-Sebt Gate he turned in the direction of the cavalry barracks. Despite the late hour the numberless cafés with their flaring gas lamps and tawdry garishness were at their busiest. The pavements were thronged, a ceaseless stream of cosmopolitan humanity; slow-moving, dignified Arabs, servile and furtive-eyed Jews meekly giving place to all who elbowed them, and eager, chattering Frenchmen—all jostling, indiscriminately. Even the roadway was invaded, and bands of Zouaves with interlocked arms reeled along regardless of the traffic, roaring out the latest musical song with unmelodious vigour and shouting questionable jibes at the passers by.

Tonight Blidah seemed to be en fête, noisier and more blatant than usual. And to Carew, fresh from nearly a year in the desert, the scene was distasteful. It was not new to him, years spent in Algeria had familiarised him with the nightly aspect of the garrison towns, and he was in no mood to be either interested or amused by what he saw. He had no love for Blidah at the best of times and he had already been there once before that day.

At the cavalry barracks he handed over Captain André’s grey to the sleepy groom who was waiting and, dismissing the Kabyle lad, turned with a sigh of relief in the direction of the Bab-el-Rabah. Passing through the gateway he headed towards the east, intending to return by the same route by which he had brought Major Meredith. Once clear of the town Suliman broke of his own accord into the long, swinging gallop to which he was accustomed and for a time Carew let him take his own pace. But soon he checked him, drawing him into a reluctant walk. And as the bay sidled and reared, snorting impatiently, his master bent forward in the saddle and ran his hand caressingly over the glossy arched neck. “Gently, gently, core of my heart,” he murmured in the language that came more readily to his lips than his own, “there is no need for haste. Tomorrow is also a day.” And pacing slowly forward through the quiet night he set himself at last to face the torturing recollections of the past that for years he had put resolutely out of his mind but which had been cruelly awakened by the wholly unexpected advent of his old friend. Inscrutable as the Arabs amongst whom he lived, he exhibited no outward sign of agitation, but under the passivity that had become second nature with him there was raging a bitter storm of anger and revolt against fate that had thrown Micky Meredith across his path to shatter the hard-won peace that had come to him in the desert. Meredith was bound up with all he wished to forget, was the living reminder of the home and happiness he had lost. His coming had reopened the wound that Carew had thought healed forever. Memories, like stabs of actual pain, crowded in upon him. The old struggle, the old bitterness he had conquered once was overwhelming him again, shaking him to the very depths of his being. The past he had resolved to forget rose up anew with terrible distinctness. Royal Carew—and the woman he had loved! With the sweat of agony thick on his forehead he lived again through the horror of that ghastly homecoming. He saw again, clearly as though they stood before him, the pitying, terrified faces of the old servants from whom he learned the sordid story of his betrayal. He passed once more through the hours of anguish when he had knelt in dumb, helpless misery beside the tiny cot in the luxurious nursery and watched the death struggle of the child whom, worse than motherless, he loved so passionately. The dark waters of despair had closed over his head that night. Weak from the terrible wound that had brought him back to England, crushed by the double tragedy, he had longed and prayed for death. And when he had at last found courage to go forward with what remained to him of life, it was as a changed man, embittered out of any semblance to his former self. He had divorced his wife that she might marry the man for whom she had left him, and with grim justice, because she had been the mother of his son, he had settled upon her an adequate fortune. But for the woman herself he had no feeling left but loathing and contempt. She had deceived him, lied to him. She had destroyed his faith, his trust. She had opened his eyes at last to the unworthiness that had been patent to all but the husband who worshipped her. She had killed his love—and with it had died esteem and belief in the sex she represented. With her his ideal of womanhood, pinnacled high with chivalrous regard, had shattered into nothingness. Because of her he had become the cynical misogynist he was, seeing in all women the one woman whose falseness had poisoned his life. The thought of her stirred him now to nothing but a sense of cold disgust.

But the memory of the little son who had died was a living force within him. It had gone with him through all the years of loneliness and disillusion, a grief as bitter now as on that first night of his bereavement. Not for the woman, but for the child his starved heart still yearned with passionate intensity. The tiny face was present with him always, even yet he could remember the clinging touch of the fragile baby fingers closing convulsively on his in that last moment of terrible struggle. It was to try and deaden the pain of memory, to ease the burden of his solitude, that he had kept the little waif of the desert. And the blind boy in his helplessness and dependence had in some measure filled the blank in his life. But tonight the remembrance of his loss was heavy upon him. Even with the child Meredith was connected, for his visit to Royal Carew had been made a few months after the birth of the heir who had been born to such high hopes. Together the two men had discussed in all solemnity the probable career of the sleepy scrap of pink humanity who at that time had shown no sign of the delicacy which had developed later.

And Royal Carew! For the first time in years he let his thoughts turn to the beautiful property he had voluntarily surrendered and a wave of intense home sickness passed over him. He crushed it down with a feeling of contempt for his own weakness. Once it had seemed to him the fairest place on God’s earth, he had loved every stick and stone of it. He loved it still, but with his love was the remembrance of bitter pain that made him shrink from ever seeing it again. Childless, it was for him purposeless. If the child had lived—but the child was dead, and things were better as they were. Regrets were useless. There was nothing to be gained by harking back to what might have been. Carew’s lips tightened and he forced his mind into another channel of thought. After all, it had been no fault of Meredith’s. Carew had guessed the reason of the soldier’s restrained manner at the moment of meeting and the knowledge had added warmth to his own greeting. Pride had stirred him, that and a vague idea of testing his own command over himself. Naturally long-sighted he had seen and known Meredith even before Doctor Chalmers had hailed him. Almost he had been tempted to pass by with no sign of recognition. Then he had cursed himself for a coward and had reined in Suliman with that sudden jerk that had made Mrs. Chalmers’ heart stand still. And now was he glad or sorry for Meredith’s coming? It was a question that in his present mood he found himself unable to answer. He had no wish to further analyse his feelings. He had become unaccustomed to self-consideration. For once he had relaxed the rigid control he exercised over his own thoughts—and once was enough. During the years of strenuous work in the desert he had succeeded in suppressing self, and in that work he would endeavour to regain the contentment that was all he had to hope for.

With a powerful effort of will he put away all thoughts of Meredith and the memories he had awakened and, touching Suliman with his heel, concentrated on the results of the difficult mission from which he was now returning to Algiers.

It had been a delicate business, attended with considerable danger that had not disturbed him, and subtle oriental intrigue, in dealing with which Hosein’s help had been invaluable. The man had been Carew’s body-servant and faithful companion for all the years he had lived in Algeria. The son of his father’s old dragoman, Carew remembered him as a singularly intelligent urchin, a year or two older than himself, employed about the villa on Mustapha Superieur where the winters of his own boyhood had been spent, and he had sought him out on his first return to the country. He had never regretted it. Devoted and singleminded in his service the Arab had been friend as well as servant and a loyal cooperator in Carew’s chosen work. A wanderer by instinct, it was not only in Algeria that Hosein had travelled and the green band of the Mecca pilgrim that he wore gave him a prestige which had carried his master and himself through some sufficiently awkward situations. Carew had owed his life to him not once nor twice, and he knew that but for Hosein’s watchfulness he would never have returned alive from this last dangerous undertaking. The report he was carrying back to the Governor in Algiers was due as much to Hosein as to himself. And the Arab should not be the loser if he could help it, he thought with a sudden rare smile.

Immersed in his thoughts he had taken little notice of his surroundings and had not realised how far he had come on his homeward journey. A whistling snort from Suliman and a sudden wild swerve that would have unseated a less practised horseman brought him back abruptly to the immediate present, and looking round sharply he saw that they had arrived at the outskirts of the deserted village. Dragging his horse to a standstill he looked keenly about him, but in spite of the brilliant moonlight, he could see nothing moving. Yet Suliman was accustomed to night work and it was unlike him to shy at shadows. The deserted village had a bad reputation in the neighbourhood but Carew had never avoided it on that account, he had a reputation himself that was sufficiently widely known.

He glanced perfunctorily to right and left as he rode through the winding, grass-grown street, but to all appearances, the place seemed empty as it had been when he passed through it earlier in the evening. He was nearing the last group of tumbled-down huts when the sound of a piercing shriek breaking weirdly on the silence of the night sent Suliman high on his heels in furious protest. Hauling him down, Carew twisted in the saddle, listening intently. It came again, echoing from a little lane that straggled from the main street, the wail of a woman’s voice crying wildly in French for help. A woman—in such a place and at such an hour! Carew’s compressed lips parted in a mirthless grin and he relaxed his strained attention. What was a woman doing at midnight in that village of ill repute? Some little fool, doubtless, who had tempted providence too highly, paying the price of her folly! Well, let her pay. In all probability she had brought it on herself—she could abide by the consequences. It was no business of his, anyhow. Why should he, of all men, interfere to help a woman in her need—what was a woman’s suffering to him? His face was set and grimly hard as he soothed his plunging horse and prepared to ride on. But as Suliman started forward the cry was repeated with words that made Carew check him with an iron hand and bring him, quivering to his haunches. Clear and distinct they came to him—words of frenzied entreaty to a higher power than his, words in a language he least expected to hear.

“Help, help! oh, God, send help!”

An Englishwoman! For a moment he battled with himself. Then with a terrible oath he wrenched his horse’s head round savagely and drove him down the little lane at a headlong gallop.

The lane was a cul-de-sac, the house he sought at the far end of it, for there only did a dim light filtering through an unshuttered window show any sign of habitation. Deep shadows masked the entrance and a few feet short of it, in a patch of vivid moonlight, he pulled up and, leaping to the ground, raced towards the hidden doorway. His foot was on the crumbling step when out of the gloom three figures rose up to bar his entrance and hurled themselves upon him. The attack was silent, and in silence he met it. There was no time to reach for the revolver he had neglected to draw. Straining, heaving, he wrestled in the darkness with opponents whose faces he could not see, whose arms encircled him and whose clutching sinewy hands tore murderously at his throat. A knife pricked him and with a blind instinct he caught at and held the hand that brandished it, crushing it in his strong fingers till he felt the yielding bones crack and the weapon slipped to the ground with a faint tinkle. In perfect physical condition, with steely muscles toughened by years of strenuous and active life, he knew that singly he could have matched any one of the men who were hemming him in, but against three even his great strength was unavailing. Struggling to free his arms, he gave back step by step as they pressed him closer in a continued silence that was menacing by its very unusualness. Even the man whose hand he had maimed had made no sound beyond a muffled growl. Only the shuffling of feet on the dry ground, the panting, animal-like grunts of exertion as they grappled with him, were audible. The rank stench of filthy, sweat-drenched garments was pungent in his nostrils; hot, fetid breath fanning his face gave him—accustomed though he was to the dirt and squalor of the Arabs—a feeling of nausea that sent a shiver of disgust through him. At last with a tremendous effort he wrenched himself free and reeled back, gasping, into the patch of moonlight, his heart pounding against his ribs, perspiration pouring from him. And as the bright light struck across his face the men who had followed him swiftly drew back with sudden indetermination, muttering amongst themselves. He caught the words “El Hakim,” the title he bore amongst the desert people, and almost before he realised it they had vanished into the shadows of the neighbouring houses and he was alone. For a moment he fought for breath, wiping the blinding moisture from his dripping face, fumbling for the revolver in his waistcloth. Then another strangled cry from within the lighted hut spurred him into action and he sprang forward, flinging back the heavy burnous from his shoulders as he ran. The rotting door crashed open under the sudden impact of his weight and in the entrance he halted with levelled revolver. For a second only. His eyes sweeping the tiny room met those of a gigantic, evil-faced Arab who, startled at his appearance, had flung to the ground the woman who struggled in his arms and turned to meet the intruder with a scowl of murderous ferocity. A grim smile of recognition flickered across Carew’s stern face. “Thou—dog?” he thundered, and leaped at him. For a moment the Arab wavered, then a knife flashed in his hand. But with a quick feint Carew dodged the sweeping blow and caught the upraised wrist in a vice-like grip. With his revolver pressing into the man’s stomach he forced him back slowly against the wall of the hut, his fingers tightening their hold until the paralysed hand unclenched and the knife clattered to the floor. Kicking it beyond reach, Carew backed a few paces and, still keeping the Arab covered, turned his attention for the first time to the woman he had come reluctantly to aid. Only a girl apparently, her face almost childish in its strained, white piteousness, she had dragged herself up from the floor and was standing rocking on her feet in the middle of the room. He looked with a kind of cruel deliberation on the slender, shaking limbs which, clothed in boyish riding dress that intimately revealed their delicate beauty, would have been the joy of an artist, but which filled him only with an acute feeling of antagonism. The folly of it, the shameless, senseless folly of it! A woman must be a fool and worse than a fool to expose herself thus in a land of veiled femininity. His antagonism augmented and he viewed unmoved the signs of terrible struggle through which she had passed. That she had fought desperately was evidenced in the marks of violent handling she bore, in the unbound hair that lay in curling chestnut waves about her shoulders, in the tattered silk shirt that, ripped from throat to waist, bared the soft whiteness of her heaving breasts to the austere gaze bent so pitilessly on her. She seemed unaware of Carew’s nearness. Panting for breath, her hands clenching and unclenching mechanically, she stood like a driven animal at bay, her eyes fixed on the Arab in a wild, unblinking stare. Carew broke the silence abruptly with a blunt question addressed to her that was brutally direct. He spoke in French that both could understand and because he had no wish tonight to pass as other than an Arab himself. The harsh voice roused her to a realisation of his presence. She started violently, her hunted eyes turning slowly to him as if she dared not lose sight of the sinister figure by the wall. For a few seconds she stared at him uncomprehendingly, then her cheeks flamed suddenly as the meaning of his words penetrated. Her lips quivered and she shrank back, dragging the tangle of soft hair over her uncovered bosom with an instinctive gesture of modesty. She tried to speak, but for some time no words would come, then a wail of entreaty burst from her. “Take me away, oh, for God’s sake take me away!” she cried, and buried her face in her hands with a convulsive shudder.

He jerked his head impatiently. The life he had led for the last twelve years had made him intolerant of convention, he had no intention of allowing it to interfere now with the rough and ready justice he was fully prepared to administer. He had no reason to hesitate. The Arab was a well-known criminal, the abduction of an English visitor an offence the Algerian Government could not in any sense condone.

“I will take you away when you have answered my question, Madame,” he said coldly. “This is no time or place for false modesty. Does he go free or—” he raised his revolver with a gesture that was unmistakable. But the sharp cry of protest arrested him, and shuddering again she drew further from him till she leant against the opposite wall, clinging to it and hiding her face like a child fearful of some impending horror. “No—no—not that,” she gasped, “let him go. You came—in time.” The last words trailed into an almost inaudible whisper and with a little moan she slipped to the floor as if the last remnant of her strength had left her.

Indifferent to her distress he turned from her to the more pressing matter of the Arab.

“What shame is this, O Abdul?” he said sternly, relapsing into Arabic. Shuffling his feet the man glanced past him towards the open doorway from which Carew’s tall figure effectually barred him. He knew that in the few minutes that had passed he had been nearer to death than was comfortable to contemplate. He had no desire to enter into a detailed history of his offence, his sole wish at the moment was to remove himself as speedily as might be from the proximity of the accusing eyes fixed on him. True, a reprieve had been granted—but for how long? Memories of past dealings with the man who stood before him made him keep a wary eye on the revolver that Carew still held with unpleasant suggestiveness.

“Shame indeed, O Sidi,” he whined with a cringing salaam, “had I known that the lalla was under thy protection. But is not my lord known throughout all Algeria as one who deigns not to stoop his eyes to the face of a woman?”

There was cunning mixed with curiosity in the swift upward glance that met Carew’s frowning stare for an instant and then wavered to earth again. The scowl on the Englishman’s face deepened.

“Yet would I have killed thee for what thou hast done tonight,” he said quickly, “be very sure of that, O Abdul. But the lalla has given thee thy life. Give thanks—and go.”

He cut short the Arab’s glib protestations and hustled him towards the door. But on the threshold the man paused irresolutely, with another obsequious salaam.

“I have served my lord in the past,” he muttered sullenly, “for the sake of that service will not my lord forget—tonight?”

Carew looked at him through narrowing eyelids.

“To suit thine own ends hast thou served me,” he said pointedly, “and forgetfulness comes not readily to those who live with a sharp reminder—as I shall live,” he added, stooping swiftly and catching up the knife that lay near his foot. With a cold smile he thrust it into his waistcloth and turned slowly back into the room. He did not trouble to wait and watch the man off the premises. He had known Abdul el Dhib for years and his knowledge made him confident that in the meantime he was safe from any form of revenge from the human jackal on whose head the Algerian Government had set a price. Usually his activities were confined to more remote districts and Carew had been surprised to see him so near to civilisation. But it was no part of his business to act as a common police spy and he knew that Abdul had counted on the fact when he had endeavoured to make terms with him. Remained the more perplexing problem of the woman thrust, wholly undesired, on his hands. She was still crouched on the dusty mud floor where she had fallen and he went to her reluctantly.

She shivered at his touch, staggering to her feet with a swift glance of apprehension round the room. Clutching the screening mass of curls about her she passed a hand over her eyes as though clearing away the remembrance of some horrible vision. She showed no fear of the tall Arab-clad figure standing beside her, by some curious instinct she seemed sensible that his presence constituted a protection and not a menace. But equally she displayed no haste to explain the predicament in which he had found her or to disclose her identity. Stunned by the terrible experience through which she had passed, she appeared to be only half conscious and incapable of any initiative. Carew, passionately anxious to be quit of the whole business, was not inclined to beat about the bush, but came to the point with characteristic directness.

“You come from Blidah, Madame?”

She looked at him blankly, her puzzled eyes still shadowy with pain, and he repeated the question slower and more distinctly.

“Blidah—” she echoed vaguely. “Blidah? No—Algiers.”

A look of dismay crossed Carew’s face. Algiers was thirty miles away. He could have taken her back to Blidah easily enough, but Algiers with Suliman, who had already done a hard day’s work, carrying double—it was out of the question. He jerked his head with a gesture of annoyance and scowled thoughtfully, mentally cursing Abdul el Dhib and the woman beside him with fine impartiality.

“Where in Algiers?” he asked shortly, by way of gaining time to think out the awkward situation. But the girl was past all explanations. “Algiers—” she repeated weakly and, reeling, would have fallen but for the strong arm slipped round her. That settled it. Half fainting and wholly unable to express herself she could give him no assistance and he realised there was nothing for it but the expedient he least desired—that of taking her to his own camp. His own camp—good God! Antagonism grew into actual dislike as he glanced down at the slender boyish figure leaning against him. With a grunt of disgust he half led, half carried her out of the hut.

Suliman, trained to stand, was waiting in the patch of moonlight, jerking the dangling bridle impatiently. Unhooking his heavy burnous Carew rolled it into a long, soft pad and flung it across the horse’s neck in front of the high-peaked saddle. Then he swung the girl up with a curt “Hold on to his mane” and leaped up behind her, wondering what would be the result of Suliman’s first excited plunge. But with instinctive good grace the horse refrained from his usual display of light-hearted exuberance and set off soberly at a slow canter to which Carew held him. There were no signs of Abdul and his band of cut-throats, no lurking shadows in the vicinity of the silent houses and in a few minutes the village was behind them.

Carew rode with a tight rein and a watchful eye on the drooping little figure in front of him. His own tall, muscular form was drawn up in the saddle taut and rigid with repugnance at her nearness, every fibre in his being revolting from the proximity of her woman’s body. The subtle torture of it made him grit his teeth and thick, cold drops of moisture gathered on his forehead. He raged at the necessity that had forced him to a step that an hour ago he would have thought beyond the bounds of possibility. And tonight of all nights, when his senses were already raw and aching with the recollections of the past that had racked him almost beyond bearing.

The calm to which he had schooled himself through years of self-discipline and self-suppression had been swept away and he was aghast at the tumult within him which seemed to be tearing down every defence and barrier he had raised so strenuously.

The need of one fragile girl had caused him to break a resolution from which he had sworn never to turn. And at the moment he could cheerfully have thrown the fragile girl behind the clump of rocks they were passing and washed his hands of the whole affair. Because she was English—it was the sole reason for the action that had so surprised himself. Race loyalty had, in an extreme moment, proved stronger than his determination and her sex had been swamped in her nationality. But for those few words in English he would have ridden on. The appeal coming in another language had left him unmoved, but repeated in the mother-tongue that had become almost foreign to him had stirred him powerfully, even against his own inclination. But the call of the blood that had triumphed so unexpectedly over him did not in any way mitigate the constraint of his present situation. It was an embarrassment that grew momentarily more acute and distasteful. He was impatient of every little circumstance that augmented his discomfiture. His nerves on edge he found cause for annoyance even in the slow pace at which he was compelled to ride. It irked him as badly as it was irking Suliman who, with his nose turned towards home, was snatching at his bit and endeavouring to break into the usual gallop. The girl herself settled the last problem. She had been drooping more and more over the horse’s neck, clutching instinctively at the thick mane in which her fingers were twined, but now without a word or sound she collapsed and fell back in a dead faint.

With his face gone suddenly ghastly Carew lifted her until she lay across his thighs, his left arm crooked about her shoulders, her dishevelled little head pressing against his breast. God in heaven, it only wanted this! Cursing savagely he drove his spurs with unwonted cruelty into his horse’s sides and gave him his head. And in the wild rush through the cool night that followed he tried to forget that he carried a woman in his arms. But the slender little body, warm and yielding against his own, was a reminder that obtruded too powerfully to allow of forgetfulness. So had he carried his wife once after a minor accident in the hunting field, and then, as now, a thick strand of scented hair had blown across his face blinding him with its soft fragrance. He tore it away with shaking fingers.

Impossible now to stem the flood of recollection. It was stronger than his will to put it from him. More painful, more crushing even than before it swept him with a force he was powerless to resist and he made no further effort, surrendering his mind to its bitter memories while he urged Suliman recklessly, careless whether he broke his neck and the girl’s or not. And with a madness almost equal to his own, goaded by the sharp spurs that Carew used so seldom the bay tore on at racing speed, breasting the tiny hillocks and thundering down their gentle declivities, taking rocks and pitfalls in his stride, as if tireless. And when at last the open plain was reached he turned of his own accord in the direction of the camp, hardly slackening his pace until he arrived with a great slithering rush before the tent door. A couple of grooms sprang forward, but the last spurt had been his final effort and he made no attempt to evade them, standing with down-drooping head and widely planted feet, breathing heavily and trembling with exhaustion.

Gathering the girl closer in his arms Carew slipped to the ground. To Hosein, imperturbable even in the face of this unprecedented spectacle, he vouchsafed only the curt explanation “Abdul el Dhib” and ordering coffee to be brought to him carried his slight burden into the tent.

Prejudiced and angry he scowled down at her with fierce resentment as he laid her among the silk cushions on the divan. That he had himself been compelled to bring her here did not in any way lessen his anger or make his task easier. But since she was here, helpless and dependent on him, common humanity demanded that he should do all in his power to aid her. Striving to sink the man in the doctor he endeavoured to regard her only as a case and set to work to combat the prolonged fainting fit that seemed to argue something more than a mere collapse from fear and fatigue. And as his sombre eyes dwelt on her he found himself reluctantly admitting the uncommon beauty of her face and form. But her beauty made him no more kindly disposed towards her. A woman’s beauty—the transient snare that lured trusting fools to their undoing—what was it to him who had learned the vileness and hypocrisy that lay beneath seeming outward loveliness? With a shrug of disdain he raised her higher on the cushions.

And at last she stirred, the long, dark lashes that lay like a dusky fringe on her pale cheek fluttering tremulously. And, as he bent over her, two deep blue eyes looked suddenly into his, blankly at first, then with quick apprehension that in turn gave place to dawning recognition.

The colour crept back slowly into her face and with a whispered enquiry she struggled to sit up. But he pressed her back, slipping another cushion under her head. “Lie still for a little while,” he said slowly, “you fainted. I had to bring you to my camp. You are quite safe.”

The curious trust she had shown earlier was manifested again for she obeyed him without protest, her rigid limbs relaxing against the soft cushions. But the colour in her cheeks deepened as she glanced wonderingly about the room and then at her own disordered appearance.

“I’ve never fainted before in my life,” she murmured, “I’m sorry to have been so stupid—to have given so much trouble.” Then, all at once, her lips quivered and with a sharp, dry sob she flung her arm across her face. But the natural outburst of womanly weeping that Carew expected did not follow, only, watching her, he saw from time to time spasms of terrible shuddering shake her from head to foot.

The coffee that Hosein brought a few minutes later steadied her, and when Carew turned to her again after giving his servant further orders she staggered unsteadily to her feet with a half shy, half nervous glance about the tent.

“You have been very kind—I don’t know how to thank you,” she said hurriedly, “but I can’t trespass on your hospitality any longer. I—my husband—oh, I must get back—if—if you could lend me a horse—” But even as she spoke she swayed giddily and caught at the divan for support. Carew looked at her narrowly. “When did you eat last?” he asked abruptly, ignoring her request. Her eyes closed wearily. “I don’t know,” she faltered, “this morning, I think. A cup of coffee—before I left home. Oh, it seems ten years ago!” she burst out shuddering.

It was a simple explanation of her exhaustion that had already occurred to him, and for which he had provided. Want of food, combined with reaction following a nerve-racking experience—small wonder she had collapsed, he reflected.

“Algiers is thirty miles away,” he explained gravely, “you are not fit to ride now. You must eat, and rest for a few hours before you attempt to return.”

But she shook her head vehemently. “I couldn’t eat,” she panted, a desperate urgency in her voice, “I couldn’t rest, I mustn’t rest. I’ve got to get back home. Oh, you don’t understand—but I must get back to Algiers.” She was shaking with nervousness but Carew felt instinctively that it was not of him she was afraid. And consequently who or what inspired her fear was no business of his, though as he watched her restlessly twisting the golden circlet that gleamed so incongruously on her slim, boyish hand he made a shrewd guess at the cause of her agitation. But that was her affair. He was concerned only with the need of the moment.

“Be reasonable, Madame,” he said sharply, “I do not keep you to amuse myself, but because you are not in a fit state at the moment to ride thirty miles. Eat what my servant is bringing, rest for a couple of hours, and then I will take you back to Algiers. If your—your friends are anxious about you they must be anxious for a few hours longer.”

He spoke almost brutally and though she flinched from his tone she seemed to realise the necessity of submitting to his decision. But her distress was still obvious and he could see that she was fighting hard to maintain the restraint she imposed upon herself. And grudgingly he conceded admiration he was loath to accord. Usually courage of any kind appealed to him, but, morbidly prejudiced, he was irritated now by the unexpected moral courage she displayed. He did not want to admit it, did not want to be forced to admire where he preferred to condemn, and he turned away with a sudden rush of unreasonable anger. The entrance of Hosein with the food he had ordered put a period to an awkward silence. And when the man withdrew, Carew followed him out under the awning leaving the girl alone, for it seemed to him that his presence must be as distasteful to her as her own was to him. He detained the Arab for a few moments to explain his further requirements, and then subsided into the deck chair with a stifled yawn. Like Suliman, he had already put in a hard day’s work and there were still thirty miles to ride before sunrise. But he was used to turning night into day and inured to fatigue, and it was mental rather than physical weariness that made him relax in his chair with a heavy sigh. In spite of his efforts to control his thoughts, his mind was in a ferment, and brain and body alike were in a state of nervous tension that sapped his strength and left him at the mercy of an overwhelming tide of long forgotten emotions. The strain of the meeting with Micky Meredith had weakened him for the further developments of the evening. He could still feel the soft weight of the girl’s limp body in his arms, he brushed his hand across his face as though the thick strand of hair was again smothering him with its soft fragrance. Angry with himself, angry with her, he tried to forget her—and found himself suddenly wondering who she was. Good Lord, as if it mattered! Cursing under his breath he pitched his cigarette away and went back into the tent.

The girl met his glance with a shy smile. “I was hungry, after all,” she said, pointing to the empty tray, “and I’m so sleepy I can hardly keep my eyes open.”

But determined to go no further than bare courtesy demanded he vouchsafed only a brief nod to her tentative advance and led the way to the inner room. She paused on the threshold, looking curiously at the little sleeping apartment, then turned to him with a swift imploring glance. “You won’t let me sleep too long?”

For a moment Carew’s gloomy eyes looked deeply into the troubled depths of the blue ones fixed so earnestly on his, then: “The horses will be ready in two hours,” he said curtly, and dropped the portiere into place. For some time he paced the big tent restlessly, a prey to violent agitation. He swore at himself angrily. What in God’s name was the matter with him! Why did his thoughts, despite himself, keep turning to the woman in the adjoining room? Woman! She was only a girl, little more than a child in spite of the wedding ring that seemed to lie so uneasily on her slim finger. Any woman or child, what did she matter to him. Once safely back in Algiers she could go to the devil for all he cared.

Swinging on his heel he crossed the room and taking a medical book from a small case by the door, flung himself on the divan to read until the waiting time was over.

He was still reading when Hosein came back two hours later.

Laying the book aside with no particular haste he took a white burnous his servant tendered him and went slowly towards the inner room, scowling with annoyance and disinclination. Yet somebody had to wake the girl and he could hardly relegate the job to Hosein. He swept the curtains aside with an impatient jerk. She was still asleep, lying in an attitude of unconscious grace, her face hidden in the mass of tangled curls spread over the pillow. And from her his frowning gaze went swiftly round the room as if the alien presence made him see it with new eyes. His stern lips set more rigidly as he touched her shoulder. She woke with a start and leaped to her feet with a sharp cry that changed quickly to a nervous little laugh of embarrassment. “I was dreaming—I—is it time?” she stammered, stifling a yawn and blinking like a sleepy child. Sparing of speech he held out the white cloak. “The night is cool,” he said briefly, and turned away too quickly to notice the vivid blush that suffused her face.

At the door of the tent, under the awning, he found Hosein, who was to accompany them, waiting for him and together they watched the three black horses Carew had selected for the journey being walked to and fro in the moonlight by the grooms.

And in an incredibly short space of time the girl joined them. The enveloping burnous was clasped securely, hiding her tattered clothing, and she seemed to have regained her self-possession for she was quite at ease and looked about with eager curiosity at the scattered camp, and then with even greater interest at the waiting horses. The stallion Carew was to ride was almost unapproachable, wild-eyed and savage, held with difficulty by the two men who clung to his head. But the mount he had chosen for his unwelcome guest was a steadier, friendly beast that nozzled her inquisitively as she went to him. She caught at his velvety nose with a little cry of delight, “Oh, what a darling!” and rubbed her cheek against his muzzle, crooning to him softly. Then before Carew could aid her she was in the saddle, backing to make room for the screaming fury that was demonstrating his own reluctance to be mounted by every device known to his equine intelligence. But his rage was futile and Carew was up in a flash. And for five minutes Marny Geradine, who had ridden from babyhood, watched with breathless interest the sharpest tussle she had ever seen between a horse and its rider, and marvelled at the infinite patience of the man who sat the plunging, frenzied brute like a centaur, handling him perfectly without exhibiting the smallest trace of annoyance. His methods were not the cruel ones which, for five miserable years, she had been compelled to witness, she thought with sudden bitterness. And yet this man was an Arab in whom cruelty might be excused.

Then as Carew wheeled alongside of her she put away the painful thoughts that had risen in her mind and gave herself up to the delights of this strange ride with this equally strange companion.

It was all like a dream, fantastic and unreal, but a dream that gave her more happiness than she had known for years. The swift gallop through the night, the cool wind blowing against her face, the easy movements of the horse between her knees, were all sheer joy to her. She had no wish to talk, even if the taciturn manner of the man beside her had not made speech difficult. She wanted nothing but the pleasure of the moment, the beauty of the moonlit scene and the charm of the wonderful solitude. For her Algeria had been Algiers, she had not been asked to accompany her husband on his occasional shooting expeditions, and she had wearied of the town and its immediate surroundings. She had longed to go further afield, to get right out into the desert, but she had been given no opportunity and she had long since learned to suppress inclinations that were ridiculed and never gratified. She craved for open spaces and the lonely places of the earth, and she had been chained to towns or crowded country houses and forced into a company whose society nauseated her; she had dreamt of nights like this, of the silence and peace of the wilderness, of solitary camps where she would sleep in happy dreamlessness under the radiant stars—and the nights that were her portion had been her chiefest torment. But this one night she could revel in her dream come true and rejoice in the freedom that might never again be hers. That she might have to pay, and perhaps pay hideously, for what had occurred did not matter, almost she did not care. She had suffered so much already that further suffering seemed almost inevitable and she would not spoil the rare joy of this wonderful ride by anticipating trouble. But even as she argued bravely with herself, she blanched at the possible consequences of the terrible adventure that had been no fault of her own. If when she reached the villa at Mustapha, Clyde had already returned! She clenched her teeth on her quivering lip. He had gone for a fortnight’s shooting and the fortnight would be up tomorrow—today, she remembered with a sudden glance of apprehension at the sky, where the pinky flush of dawn was already showing. He might be back now! And if he were—what would her punishment be, what would she have to endure from one who knew his strength and used it brutally, who was cruel and merciless by nature as if he, too, were an Arab. Her mind leapt to the man who had abducted her. When, at the close of an appalling day, she had been brought to the hut in the deserted village, when she had finally realised the sinister purpose intended against her, the ghastly fear that had come to her, the paralysing sense of helplessness she had felt as she struggled against the crushing arms that held her, the horror of the relentless face thrust close to hers quivering with lust and desire, was no new thing. So did Clyde look at her, so did she shrink and sicken when he touched her. Were all men alike—sensual brutes with no consideration or pity? One, at least, had shown himself to be different—and he was an Arab! She turned and looked at him curiously. By the light of the brilliant moon she studied the lean, tanned face, wondering at its grave austerity. And as her gaze lingered on the white seam of an old scar that ran diagonally across his cheek above the curve of his square-cut jaw, she remembered suddenly that the stern, sombre eyes that had looked into hers were blue. Were there, then, blue-eyed Arabs, as there were blue-eyed Afghans? Who was he? A personage of importance, obviously—the rich appointments of the camp to which he had taken her, proved it. The embroidered cloth burnous, the wide silk scarf swathed about the haick that shaded his face, the scarlet leather boots he wore was the dress of a Chief. One of the wealthy Sheiks from the far south, perhaps, coming into Algiers for the Governor’s annual ball. Whoever he was, he had saved her honour, had saved her from worse than death. And a sudden inexplicable desire came to her to explain to this strange, taciturn Arab the situation in which he had found her. She swung her horse nearer. “I oughtn’t to have ridden alone,” she began jerkily. “I know that, but I was quite close to Algiers—it seemed safe enough—and I had a reason for what I did. One has to—be alone—sometimes. I didn’t think there could be any danger. It all happened so suddenly—” she broke off, chilled with his silence, wondering how she had found courage to speak to him at all, for his frigid manner did not invite confidence. And his brief answer did not tend to put her more at ease.

“It is always dangerous for a woman to ride alone in Algeria,” he said gravely. It was his tone rather than the actual words that sent the hot blood rushing to her face and reduced her to a silence that lasted until they sighted the outskirts of Algiers. The dawn was brightening, already the stars were paling and dying, one by one, and the red glow of the rising sun was warming in the east.

With a sign to Hosein, Carew drew rein. “My servant will attend you, Madame. I can go no further,” he said, abruptly, his eyes fixed on the distant city. She sat for a moment without answering, then she looked up quickly, her lips quivering, uncontrollably. “I don’t know what to say—how to thank you—” He cut her short almost rudely. “I need no thanks, Madame. Put the one deed against the other—and do not judge the Arabs too harshly. They are as other men—no better, and perhaps no worse.” She shook her head with a tremulous little smile, and for a time she seemed to be struggling with herself. Then she flung her hand out with an odd gesture of appeal. “If you won’t let me thank you, will you let me be still further in your debt?” she said, unsteadily.

“As how?”

“The horse I rode,” she faltered, “I—I——my husband values him. Can you help me get him back—and soon?”

Surprised that she should seek his aid in what was clearly a police matter, Carew glanced at her with a gathering frown, but what he saw in her eyes made him look away quickly.

“You shall have your horse, Madame. I pledge you my word,” he said, shortly. A look of curious relief swept over her tense face.

“Then I shan’t worry about him—any more,” she said, with a shaky laugh. And reigning her horse nearer, again she held out her hand. “Won’t you tell me your name? I should like to know it, to remember it in—in—” she choked back a rising sob. “Please,” she whispered.

He turned to her slowly, his eyes almost black in their sombre intensity. “I have many names,” he replied, unwillingly, as though he were forcing himself to speak.

“Then tell me one,” she pleaded, wistfully.

Still he hesitated, his square chin thrust out obstinately.

“I am called—El Hakim,” he said at last, reluctantly. And touching his forehead in a perfunctory salaam, he wheeled his impatient horse and spurred him into a headlong gallop.

CHAPTER III

For a few moments, Marny Geradine, fighting to keep her own mount to a standstill, watched the fast retreating horseman until his tall, upright figure was blurred by the rush of hot tears that filled her eyes. She forced them back before they fell, the relief of tears was a luxury she had learned to deny herself, and turning once more towards Algiers cantered forward as slowly as her eager horse would permit. After all, what was the use of hurrying, she thought with a kind of dreary fatalism. If Clyde had already returned he would have arrived last night, a few minutes extra delay now would make no difference. The mischief would have been done. Nothing she could do would lessen his anger, nothing she could say would convince him against his own inclination. The true story of her terrible experience would find no credence with him. And even all the truth she dare not tell him. The latter part of the night’s adventure could never be divulged. The strange Arab who rescued her, his hospitality, his chivalrous regard and consideration would be beyond her husband’s comprehension. He was incapable of understanding a temperament other than his own, he would believe only the vile conclusion his own foul mind would leap at and hold in spite of all denials. She could never tell him. Enough that his return had found her absent, that she had lost a valuable horse for which he had recently paid a large figure. True, she had been promised that the horse would be returned, and the curious unaccountable faith she had in the man who had made that promise did not waver in spite of the seeming improbability of its fulfillment, but would his return even satisfy Clyde for his temporary loss? A cold feeling of fear ran through her, and then a wave of contemptuous anger at her own cowardice. She could make no explanations and offer no excuses. She would have to be silent as she always was silent rather than lie to shield herself from his imputations. Whatever she did was wrong, no matter how hard she tried to please him she always failed. She wondered, sometimes, how she found courage to go on trying. It all seemed so utterly useless. She pushed the heavy hair off her forehead with a bitter sigh. There wasn’t much courage about her this morning, she thought. The exultation of that wild swift gallop through the night had passed, the new strength that had come to her had evaporated, leaving her utterly weary and sick at heart. It would have settled so many difficulties if the Arab who had abducted her had used with purpose the knife with which he had threatened her the previous day. Death would mean release from a life that was unbearable, and she was not afraid to die. Death was life—and the life she led was death. All whom she loved, all who had ever loved her—for Clyde’s gross passion was not love—were dead. All except Ann—and how much longer would Ann be left to her? Clyde had so often threatened that she must go. For Ann’s sake she must try and struggle on. But if Ann was taken from her—the beautiful, tired little face grew suddenly cold and set like a piece of carved white ivory and the slender, drooping figure drew straighter in the saddle as she wrenched her thoughts to the present. To get it over as soon as might be—to take her medicine like a man. Despite her unhappiness, she smiled at the recollection of the well remembered formula that in her childhood had been her father’s invariable prelude to any correction he administered. And the father who had died so long ago, who had idolised her as she had idolised him, had never punished without reason. Clyde punished without either reason or provocation. The thought goaded her. No matter what form his anger took she would not give him the satisfaction he always hoped for. She would not let him see the physical fear he inspired that even her courageous spirit could not conquer. It would be worse for her in the end for her apparent callousness infuriated him, but she would rather break than bend, rather die than grovel at his feet which she knew was his desire. Avoiding the main road which she was approaching, she struck into a narrow bridle path that wound upward to the woods behind Mustapha, from where she had easy access to the little door that half hidden by flowering shrubs lay at the far end of the villa garden. The courage she still clung to did not extend to braving the curiosity of the gatekeeper at the main entrance. A turn in the track brought her to the path that led down to the garden gate. She reined in and slid to the ground. For a moment she stood still by the horse that had carried her so well, her face pressed against his neck, her fingers caressing the black muzzle thrust affectionately against her arm. Then she turned and handed the bridle to Hosein who was waiting stolidly beside her.

“That is the villa,” she said, pointing downward, “will you tell your master that he may know where to send my horse? It is called the Villa des Ombres. You will not forget?”

The Arab’s dark eyes followed the direction of her hand. “It is known to my lord,” he said gravely, “it is the villa of the Vicomte de Granier, who is his friend.”

She smiled at the little piece of gratuitous information.

“Go, with God,” she murmured shyly in his own tongue. It was one of the few sentences she had learned and as the man heard the stumbling words his gloomy face lit up suddenly and he replied with a flow of soft quick Arabic she could not understand. She watched him mount and, leading the horse she had ridden, move slowly away, not, to her surprise, in the direction from which they had come but along the winding bridle road that led further up the hillside. The trees soon hid him from sight, and with another weary sigh she turned and looked again on the Villa des Ombres. White and dainty as a doll’s house, set in the loveliest garden she had ever seen, surrounded by a high wall washed with palest yellow, the name seemed singularly inappropriate, yet as she looked at it now the significance of it struck her forcibly. For her it was indeed a villa of shadows, dark, menacing shadows that crept nearer to her as she hesitated beside the little path her feet had trodden so often. With a quickening heart-beat she pulled herself together and went down to the tiny doorway. Thick fronds of jasmine trailed across it and she put them aside carefully while she hunted for the key. The door opened inwards and she slipped through, closing it gently behind her, and stood for a moment with all the length of the garden between her and the villa, clutching the burnous closer round her, staring fixedly in the direction of the house. The garden was deserted, it was too early even for the gardeners who were not allowed to disturb by their chattering the protracted slumbers of the English milor who usually lay like a log for hours after the sun had risen. There was no sign of life within the villa. Everything was hushed and still, a brooding silence that oppressed her overwrought nerves. The heavy cloying perfume of the flowering shrubs brought a feeling of nausea that made her choke with sudden breathlessness. Her heart was beating suffocatingly as she started forward, moving slowly from tree to tree, instinctively taking what cover they afforded. At first she hardly realised what she was doing, then a blaze of anger went through her. She flung her shoulders back defiantly. She was not a thief to creep stealthily into her own house; whatever horrible construction Clyde might choose to put upon what had happened, she had done nothing to be ashamed of. With head held high and lips firmly compressed, she flung out from among the sheltering wealth of foliage into the open and walked steadily towards the house. It was a modern villa built in the French style, with all the rooms communicating. The bedrooms were at the back, opening on to a veranda which led to the garden. And to her own bedroom, the room she shared with the brute who owned her, she went with dragging feet. Before the open French window that gave access to the room, she came to a sudden halt and her eyes swept the cool dim interior with one swift glance of apprehension. Then she fell weakly against the window frame with a strangled gasp of relief, trembling violently, conscious for the first time of an overwhelming weariness that seemed to take from her every atom of strength. The room appeared to be empty; the massive bed, its silken curtains hanging from a gilt coronet fixed in the ceiling had not been slept in.

But as she looked again, too tired to move, she saw what she had overlooked at first, the tall gaunt figure of a woman, clothed in black, kneeling beside a big armchair, her neat grey head bowed on her folded arms. And as Marny bent forward eagerly there came to her ears the low soft murmur of a voice raised in passionate prayer.

A faint smile flitted across her pale face.

“Ann,” she whispered.

With a wild cry the woman scrambled to her feet and rushed at her, catching her in her arms with hungry fierceness.

“My lamb—my lamb—” she sobbed, and held her as if she never meant to let her go. And yielding to the weakness that was growing on her, almost happy for the moment in the shelter of the tender arms wrapped around her, Marny laid her aching head on the shoulder of the woman who had nursed her from babyhood. But the transient happiness passed quickly and she freed herself with a single word of interrogation.

“Clyde?”

The old woman’s face hardened suddenly. “His lordship’s not back—thank God,” she said, grimly. With an inward prayer of thankfulness Marny dropped into a chair. The relief was tremendous, the respite more than she had dared to hope for. As Clyde was not yet back then there was no possibility of his arriving before the evening when she would have strength again to meet him. But there was still one thing that had to be arranged before he came. She put aside the trembling hands that were fumbling at the clasp of the enveloping cloak.

“Tanner,” she said, hoarsely, “fetch Tanner. I must speak to him at once.”

The woman made a gesture of protest. “Never mind Tanner, Miss Marny dear,” she said, soothingly. “Tanner can wait. Let me put you cosily into bed first and then I’ll tell him you are safe home. He’s close by and won’t take any finding. Give him his due, he’s been nearly as anxious as me, backwards and forwards between the house and the stables since yesterday morning—and worrying more about you, my precious, I’m bound to admit, than that nasty, vicious horse he’s so partic’lar about,” she added, trying again to unfasten the burnous. Marny guessed at the unspoken anxiety that made Ann’s fingers so unusually clumsy and smiled reassuringly.

“You don’t understand,” she said, with gentle insistence, “I must see him. Don’t fuss, Ann dear. I’m not hurt or damaged in any way, I’m only desperately tired. But I can’t rest until I’ve spoken to Tanner. Bring him here, and then you can coddle me to your heart’s content. But I won’t move from this chair until I’ve seen him.”

“But, Miss Marny, it’s your bedroom,” exclaimed Ann in horrified accents, “and you in that outlandish cloak and all, and your hair—”

“Oh, never mind my hair, you dear old propriety, and Tanner won’t trouble his head about it being my bedroom. Do as I ask you, Ann, if you love me,” said Marny, wearily. And muttering to herself Ann departed grudgingly.

She returned almost immediately followed by an undersized, sharp-faced man, who bore the marks of his calling stamped plainly upon him. Half jockey, half groom, Cockney from the top of his bullet head to the tips of his neat feet, he accepted the situation with the aplomb of his kind.

Saluting smartly, he waited for Lady Geradine to speak. And Marny who liked and trusted the little man did not hesitate.

“I’ve lost The Caid, Tanner,” she said, bluntly. For a moment his coolness forsook him. “My Gawd!” he breathed and stared at her in frank dismay. Then he recovered himself quickly. “Did you take a toss, m’lady, did ’e ’arm you, the vicious devil—begging your ladyship’s pardon. Mrs. Ann and me, we’ve been cruel anxious,” he added with the suspicion of a shake in his rasping voice. Marny smiled at him and shook her head.

“I’m not hurt, thank you, Tanner. The chestnut was stolen. I ought not to have taken him so far from Algiers. I forgot that he might be known, might be a temptation to any Arab who knew his value—there are a lot of desert men coming into the town just now. Anyhow he’s gone. I couldn’t do anything alone. But I—I’ve given information about it and I’m almost certain that he will be sent back. So you needn’t worry, Tanner. I’m sure it will be all right. It was my fault entirely, it probably wouldn’t have happened if I had taken you with me. But there is no good in going back to that. I’ll explain to his lordship and—and please keep near the stables, Tanner, in case the horse comes back today,” she added, hastily, struggling to keep her voice steady. For a moment the man hesitated, then with a quiet, “Very good, m’lady,” he jerked his hand to his forehead and tip-toed from the room. Outside in the hall he looked back over his shoulder at the closed door, his face working oddly. “You’ll explain to ’is blooming lordship, will you m’lady? Gawd almighty, we all know what that’ll mean! I’d a deal rather take the blame meself—blast ’im!” he muttered, and strode off very far from sharing his mistress’s optimism with regard to the stolen horse.

In the bedroom, Marny leant back wearily in the deep armchair, too tired to move, wondering at her own confidence in the promise that had been made to her, wondering at the man himself and at the strange feeling of security she had felt in his presence.

Ann’s anxious voice roused her and rising with an effort she submitted without further protest to the ministrations of her old nurse who stripped the tattered clothing from her with exclamations of horror at the sight of the bruises marring the whiteness of the delicate body she worshipped.

She had seen, with almost murder in her heart, similar bruises before on those slim young arms and knew them for what they were, the marks of a man’s merciless fingers. But she made no comment while she bathed the aching limbs, and brushed the tangled mop of curly hair, and finally tucked up her charge in bed as if she were a child again. And until the last drop of strong soup she brought was finished, and she had drawn the jalousies over the open window, she refrained from asking the questions that kept rising to her lips. But when everything she could think of for her mistress’s comfort was done she slipped on to her knees by the bedside and caught the girl’s hands in hers.

“Tell me, Miss Marny dear,” she pleaded, tremulously, “you can’t go bottling things up inside of you forever. It will ease your mind to speak—for once. There’s a lot more than you let out to Tanner, you that came home in rags and bruised fit to break my heart. What did they do to you, my precious? Where have you been all these weary hours that I’ve been nearly out of my senses with fright—thinking you dead, or worse, and dreading his lordship’d come back and find you gone, and all.”

And thankful for the opportunity of confiding fully once more in the faithful old nurse who, until five years ago, had shared her every secret, Marny told her. And Ann listened, as she had listened long ago to the frank recital of childish escapades, in silence. Only the trembling of her thin lips, the occasional tightening of her worn old hand, betrayed the agitation she would not allow herself to voice. Miss Marny had been through enough, had suffered enough for one day, she wouldn’t want any more “scenes” now it was all safely over. She brushed the hair tenderly from the damp white forehead and rose to her feet with a long drawn breath. “It was bad enough—God be thanked it wasn’t worse,” she said, softly. “I’d never have believed the day would come when I’d feel a particle of gratitude toward an Arab—nasty, slinking, treacherous creatures I’ve always thought them. That man of his lordship’s—Malec—fair gives me the creeps. But I suppose there’s good as well as bad amongst them, there must be by what you’ve told me. A Christian gentleman couldn’t have done more, and there’s many who’d have done less. What did you say his name was, Miss Marny?”

Marny turned drowsily, settling more comfortably into the pillows.

“He didn’t tell me his name,” she said, sleepily, “he said he was called El Hakim.”

“And what might that mean?”

“It means a doctor, I think, but I didn’t know Arabs had doctors. Perhaps he has something to do with the Spahis—he talked French very well—perhaps he—” a big yawn swallowed the end of the sentence, and Ann drew up the coverlet with a little admonishing pat. “Never you bother your pretty head about him now, my lamb. Just go to sleep and forget all about it. And heaven send the man’s as good as his word and gets that dratted horse back,” she added, anxiously to herself as she left the room.

It was late in the afternoon when she reluctantly aroused her mistress and set down a dainty tea tray by the bedside.

“It’s four o’clock, Miss Marny, and there’s two eggs to your tea. I’ll see you eat every bit of it,” she announced cheerfully, bustling about the room and flinging back the shutters. Lady Geradine stretched luxuriously and then sat up, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. “Oh, Ann, what fun,” she said with a laugh the old woman had not heard for years. “It’s like nursery days. Put heaps of cushions behind me and cut off the tops of the eggs. I’m simply famishing.” Then she paused with a square of toast half way to her mouth and the laughter died out of her eyes.

“Has The Caid come back?”

Ann splashed the tea into the saucer at the sudden question.

“Not yet, dearie, but its only four o’clock—and the train doesn’t get in until seven,” she said, inconsequently. Marny understood very well the meaning of her somewhat obscure sentence, but she gave no sign of understanding. It was part of the pitiful game she played that even Ann received no confidences and was allowed to make no comment on the treatment her husband meted out to her. Angry with herself for the words that had escaped unintentionally, the old woman stole a penitent glance at the girl who was her idol. But Marny was apparently only concerned with the salting of her egg.

“The poor dear isn’t likely to come back by train,” she said lightly, as if the horse alone occupied her mind.

Finishing her tea she slipped out of bed and into the wrapper Ann held for her. Stretching out her arms she patted them tenderly, and then raising them high above her head bent forward easily, sweeping her finger-tips to the ground, and straightened again slowly with a laugh of satisfaction.

“I’m as right as rain, Ann,” she said, reassuringly, “not a bit stiff. I’ll dress for dinner now. I can’t be bothered to change again so soon. Bring me that white teagown thing I got in Paris, it’s loose and cool.”

Too loose and too cool, thought Ann as she went with primly folded lips to fetch the diaphanous little garment that had been made to Lord Geradine’s order and which she herself considered neither fit nor decent for her mistress to wear. A dress suitable in its sensuous appeal to the women with whom the Viscount chose to associate, but degrading to the innocent girl whom he had married. And when the final touches to Lady Geradine’s toilet were completed, Ann stood back and surveyed her handiwork with grim disapproval. And Marny, staring absently into the long mirror, caught the expression in the stern old eyes fixed on her and moved abruptly with a smothered sigh, the colour deepening in her face. The dress was hateful and she loathed it, but in this as in everything else, loyalty to her husband kept her lips closed. Even his questionable taste must pass undiscussed. And discussion would make it no easier to bear. She had to submit to it as she had to submit to the man himself. She was not a free agent. Legally she was his wife, actually she was a slave to be and do at the whim of a capricious and tyrannical master.

In the early days of her married life, she had tried to rebel, and the memory of those futile struggles was like a horrible nightmare, but the passing years had taught her wisdom and given her strength to accept what she revolted from and detested.

Slipping a long chain of uncut emeralds round her neck she went silently out of the room. The drawing room she entered was more English than French in its appointments, bright with gay coloured chintzes and fragrant with masses of flowers banked in every available space. She lingered by a tall basket filled with giant roses, inhaling their delicate perfume and gathering the cool petals against her hot cheeks. Then she moved slowly to glance at a porcelain clock ticking noisily on the mantelpiece. Little more than an hour before Clyde might come and her brief holiday would be over. He rarely left her for so long and the days of respite had flown. With a shiver she lit a cigarette and began to pace the narrow room, her thoughts travelling back over the last five years of bitter misery to the day when, barely seventeen years of age, a child in every sense, she had grown suddenly in the space of a few agonising hours into womanhood, cruelly awakened to what it meant to be Clyde Geradine’s wife. As he determined to continue so had he begun. The disgust and loathing he inspired in her had never lessened. Herself innately chaste, his gross coarseness and frank sensuality appalled her. If he had even once shown that he had been moved by any higher sentiment, had had any nobler thought beyond the purely physical attraction she had for him she would have tried to make allowances. But for him she was merely a perfectly made vigorous young animal by whom he hoped, as he candidly told her, to get the heir on whom he had set his heart. And with nothing to cling to, nothing to hope for, she felt only degradation in her association with him. His moods were variable as his temper was uncertain. He was made up of contradictions. Despite his own infidelities, infidelities of which she was fully aware, despite the fact that he deliberately paraded her beauty on every possible occasion, he was possessed with an insensate jealousy. Faithless himself he placed no trust in her faithfulness, and was suspicious of every mark of admiration shown her. She was his, he insisted, as much his property as any horse or dog in his stable, his to use as he would. His also, it seemed, to abuse and torture by every subtle mental torment his cruel nature could devise. And not mental only. It pleased him to know her powerless against his strength, it pleased him when the mood was on him to subject her to physical violence that his warped mind held to be within his right. He had bought her, body and soul he had bought her, and brutally he allowed her no possibility of ever forgetting the fact.

Motherless before she was old enough to know her loss, she had grown up in a big rambling house in an isolated part of the west coast of Ireland. The father she adored had died when she was twelve, leaving her in care of her brother Denis, who was ten years her senior. Neighbours were few and far between, their visits long since discouraged by the lonely, broken-hearted man who had lived a life of seclusion since his wife’s death. With no companions of her own age, with almost no associates of her own rank, she had spent her days in the open, riding and fishing, content with the limited life she led. Ann’s had been the only womanly influence she had known, Ann who had been her mother’s nurse and then her own.

And Denis, a ne’er-do-well with tastes and inclinations studiously hidden during his father’s lifetime, had, on succeeding to his inheritance, shaken the dust of Ireland off his feet to seek a more exhilarating sphere of activity where he had successfully dissipated his patrimony, and incidentally fallen under the influence and into the power of Lord Geradine who was a past master in all the vices the younger man emulated. Marny had never known the real truth of the whole sordid story. She only knew that after years of absence Denis had returned, changed almost beyond recognition, bringing with him a stranger who had stayed for a fortnight in the house. She had hated the big domineering Englishman at sight, instinctively repelled, and the attention that almost from the first he had shown had terrified her. Then he had gone, and a couple of months later Denis had reappeared, more haggard, more careworn than before. He had told her a long rambling tale, most of which she had not understood, and had ended with a wild appeal to her to save his honour and the honour of the family she had been taught from childhood to reverence. Only by her marriage with Lord Geradine, it seemed, could the family name escape disgrace. And, ignorant of what she did, carried away by Denis’ eloquence, passionately jealous for the name that had gone untarnished for generations, she had consented. She had been given no time for further reflection, and in spite of Ann’s horrified remonstrances and pleadings she had been married almost at once. That was five years ago. And for five years she had endured a life of misery, in an alien environment, disillusioned and shocked. Her husband’s hold over her brother—a hold she had never comprehended and which had never been explained to her—was the means by which he compelled her submission in everything. And consistently she had done what she thought to be her duty, had striven to please him as far as she was able and had been loyal to him who had never shown loyalty to her.

Five years—only five years!

With a bitter sigh she sank wearily into a big chintz covered Chesterfield. For a long time she lay thinking, almost dreaming, until at last she awoke with a sudden sense of shock to the import of her thoughts. The Arab who had saved her! She could see distinctly every line of his tall, graceful figure, every feature of his grave, bronzed face. She found herself wondering again at the cold austerity of his expression, so different from the appraising glances of admiration usually accorded her and which made her hate the beauty that inspired them. He had not even appeared to know that she was beautiful. His sombre eyes had rested on her with complete indifference, almost, so it seemed to her, with dislike. Hyper-sensitive, she had been conscious that his aid, his hospitality had been given unwillingly. She remembered the curt impatient voice, “I do not keep you to please myself—” and wondered why the fact of his indifference seemed so suddenly to hurt her. If he had not been indifferent, if he had looked on her as other men did, what would have been her fate? She would have escaped one horrible peril only to fall into another as horrible. She had been utterly in his power, utterly at his mercy—the mercy of an Arab. She owed her honour to an Arab—and she did not even know his name! Why had he evaded what was a perfectly natural question, why hidden his identity under a sobriquet? Was he afraid that she would try to trace him, try to force on him some tangible proof of the gratitude he had refused to listen to? Her cheeks burned. What he had done was beyond payment. In all probability she would never see him again. She would have to be content with the meagre information he had given her, content with the memory of a wonderful chivalry she had never thought to experience and which had been a revelation. It was as though some healing power had touched her, like the clean, wholesome breath of some purifying wind penetrating the defiling atmosphere that surrounded her, opening her eyes to a new conception of man’s attitude towards woman. The men she had hitherto met had been uniformly alike in taste and inclination to the husband who forced their society upon her. She shrank from them as she shrank from him with a sense of shame that was unendurable. Compelled to participate in a life she abhorred, she seemed to be on the brink of some loathsome pit, choked with the fetid fumes of its foul putrescence, steadily sinking downward into an abyss of horrible and terrible darkness, her whole soul recoiling from the moral destruction that appeared to loom inevitably ahead of her. What did her soul matter to Clyde? It was only her body he wanted. It was only physical admiration she saw in the eyes of his friends. Yesterday for the first time she had met a man who had ignored her sex, whose gaze had not lingered desirously on the fair exterior compelling a remembrance of her womanhood, whose proximity had not moved her to hot discomfort, but had given instead a sense of security and trust. With him she had felt safe—safe and curiously unstrange. The hours spent in his tent, the long ride through the night at his side, would never be effaced from her memory. He had given her a glimpse of a finer, cleaner manhood than in her unhappy experience she had ever known. In some undefinable way he seemed to have restored the self-respect that year by year she had felt being torn from her. And he was an Arab! An Arab. She whispered it again, lying very still on the sofa, her fingers twining and untwining restlessly about the emerald chain. What did his nationality matter—it was the man himself who counted. The man who had shown her a nobler type than she had ever met with, the man who had shown her that all strength was not merciless, that all men did not look on women merely as their natural prey. And as with this desert man, so must it be with many men of her own race. Her brooding eyes darkened with sudden anguish, and she flung on to her face burying her head in the silken cushions, fighting the agony of misery and revolt that swept over her. Why had she been destined for such a fate? Why had it been her lot to be thrown only amongst those whose vileness debased the sacred image in which they were made? Why had she been given no chance of the happiness that must be the portion of luckier women than she? If it had been otherwise, if for her marriage had meant not only physical union but a higher, holier companionship of mind and spirit, how gladly would she have yielded to a passion hallowed by love, to possession tempered by consideration. If she could have loved and respected where now she only obeyed and endured! A marriage such as hers was ignoble, degrading, horrible beyond all thought. If she had known what it would mean, would she have had the courage to face what she had done in ignorance? She sat up, pushing the heavy hair off her forehead, staring into space with pain-filled eyes. Yes, she would have done it again in spite of everything. Not for love of Denis, she had never loved him—in childhood he had bullied her, in girlhood he had neglected her, and on the threshold of her womanhood he had made her pay the price of his infamy—but for love of the name and family that meant so much to her. And because of that, because her wretchedness was the result of her own willing sacrifice she must struggle on as she had struggled all these five terrible years, beaten and hopeless, but striving to fulfill her part of the marriage vows her husband treated so lightly. But, oh, dear God, she had never known it would be so hard! Harder now than ever. Why did her thoughts turn so persistently to the man who had saved her? Why did the recollection of his chivalry and generosity seem to make her feel so much more acutely the misery of her life? Was it only the contrast to the man whose wife she was? She hid her face in her hands with a sharp little cry of fear. It was more than that. Quite suddenly she realised it—the full meaning of what had happened to her, the full significance of the thoughts that were crowding in her brain. She shivered, clasping her hands closer over her eyes. Why, oh why had this come to her—had she not already enough to bear! And if she had not been bound, if she were free, it would make no difference. He was an Arab! Then her self-control gave way and she fell back among the cushions, dry-eyed but shaking with emotion. “I wouldn’t have cared,” she wailed, “I wouldn’t care what he was.”

But his indifference had been complete—and she was married! She wrung her hands in an agony of shame and horror. She was married. She was Clyde’s wife. To even think of another man was sin. She must tear from her heart the image that in a few short hours had become so deeply implanted. She would never see him again. With quivering lips she whispered it, and writhed at the strange new sense of desolation that came upon her. A companionship that had been so brief, a passing stranger of an alien race whose name she did not even know—and yet the world seemed suddenly empty. She pondered it, ashamed and vaguely frightened. It was because she had trusted him, she thought with a pitiful attempt at self-justification, and because she was tired and overwrought. Unnerved, she had allowed his kindness to make too deep an impression.

Later, when strength was given her again, she would forget—not him—but the wickedness that filled her heart tonight. She moved listlessly on the sofa, mentally exhausted, too tired almost to care that The Caid was still missing, that very soon her husband might be returning and she would have to make her lame explanation and face his inevitable wrath. And for once, honesty compelled her to admit it, he would have good cause for anger. The horse was valuable, and she had had no right to take him so far from Algiers unattended. It was asking for trouble in a land of horsemen who stole where they could not buy and who would consider the theft of a noted stallion, that a foreigner purposed to remove from the country, as an act of merit rather than otherwise. All her young life she had ridden alone. But it would be useless to try and explain to Clyde the overpowering desire for solitude that had driven her out yesterday morning without the groom whose constant presence put a period to her enjoyment and took from her all the pleasure of her rides.

The clock on the mantelpiece struck seven. She hardly glanced at it. If Clyde did come, the train would probably be late. It usually was. And for nearly an hour more she lay still, striving to concentrate her tired mind on trivialities, becoming momentarily drowsier as the room grew darker. She was nearly asleep when the sound of a loud blustering voice echoing from the hall sent her bolt upright on the sofa, her heart beating violently, her wide eyes fixed apprehensively on the door.

She stumbled to her feet as he flung into the room, a tall heavily-built man whose big frame seemed to almost fill the aperture as he stood for a moment in the entrance peering for her in the dim light.

“What the devil are you sittin’ in the dark for?” The truculent tone gave her the key to the mood in which he had returned and her heart beat faster as she heard him fumbling at the electric switchboard by the door. Then the room flashed into brilliance as he swept his hand downward with an impatient jerk, and she blinked at the sudden glare of light with a nervous little laugh.

Without waiting for an answer he strode towards her and caught her in his arms with the rough masterfulness that was habitual with him. “Been asleep—tired of waiting for me? You look like a baby with your hair all ruffled and your cheeks the colour of a two-year-old,” he said, with a short laugh of satisfaction, drawing her closer and bending to kiss her. The hot breath fanning her face was rank with spirits and it took all her resolution to suppress the repugnance his nearness caused her, and meet the heavy eyes that glowed with sudden passion as he crushed his mouth on hers. She was trembling when at last he released her but he did not seem to notice her agitation. He laughed again, looking her slowly up and down with the frank appraisement of a proprietor. “I wanted that,” he remarked complacently, “a fortnight’s a bit too much without your charmin’ society, my dear. You’ll come along too the next time. And the trip wasn’t worth it. No decent heads worth speaking about, not a sight nor smell of a panther, and that ass Malec mucked up the arrangements as I knew he would—a rotten show from start to finish. And the train was nearly an hour late getting into Algiers, waited an infernal time at a potty little wayside station for some dam’ chief or other to get aboard with most of his tribe. Thought we were going to be there all night. Can’t think why they let the beggars travel by train. I’m as hot as hell and my throat’s on fire. I want a drink and I want a bath. Tell ’em to have dinner ready in half-an-hour.” And with a parting curse at the inefficiency of the Algerian railway service he flung out of the room as he had flung into it.

With her hand pressed tightly against the lips that were still quivering from his kisses Marny stood struggling to regain her composure and starting nervously as she listened to the angry bellowing that came from her husband’s dressing room. But she drew a swift little breath of relief at the thought that he obviously knew nothing as yet of The Caid’s disappearance, that it was not any fault of hers but only the non-success of the shooting trip that had annoyed him. If she could only keep the disastrous knowledge from him until tomorrow—the horse might be back by then. She smothered a sigh and, ringing the bell, gave the order for dinner. His rough handling had further disarranged her ruffled hair and while she smoothed it into order she stared at herself in the mirror with hostile eyes.

He had made her a coward—would he end by making her a liar as well? But at least she need not lie to herself. It was cowardice that made her defer telling him the story of her mishap. It was cowardice that had made her choose the hateful dress she was wearing tonight. She turned away with a gesture of disgust and self scorn, and fell to pacing the room until he joined her again.

During dinner her own silence passed unheeded while he launched into a detailed and grumbling account of the expedition that had fallen far short of his expectations. He cursed the country and its people and the sporting facilities with equal impartiality and with a wealth of highly coloured language that was peculiarly his own, breaking off frequently to swear at the servants who were, notwithstanding, doing their work quickly and well. She knew that he must have been drinking heavily during the day, but his thirst seemed unquenchable and as she watched him gulp down whisky after whisky, she wondered with a feeling of dread what form the inevitable reaction would take. His rages were easier to bear than the moods of maudlin sentimentality that sickened her.

Contrary to his usual custom he followed her into the drawing room when dinner was finished, and lighting a cigar took up a commanding position before the flower-filled fireplace with his hands thrust deep in the pockets of his dinner jacket, watching her through half-veiled eyes until coffee was brought.

“You’re dam’ pretty tonight, Marny,” he remarked condescendingly as he took the fragile cup she held out to him. “I flatter myself that dress was a stroke of genius,” he added, looking with no great favour at the coffee he raised to his lips. A moment later cup and contents went crashing into the flower pots behind him.

“Filth!” he ejaculated disgustedly, “if that chap can’t make decent coffee he’ll have to go.” And consigning the cook to perdition he lounged across the room to a chair and turning to the tray-laden table beside him splashed neat cognac wrathfully into a glass. Marny put down her own cup without answering. There was nothing wrong with the coffee, it was perfectly made as usual, but expostulation was useless with Clyde in his present humour. And he seemed to expect no comment. Swallowing the brandy with slow enjoyment, he refilled the glass and, stretching his long limbs lazily, turned to her with the question for which she had been waiting all evening.

“Tanner been behaving—beasts all right?” he rapped, with a glance at the clock on the mantlepiece. And fearful that, even at this late hour, he might be meditating a visit to the stables, for the first time in her life she lied, her fingers clutching at the soft cushions of the sofa till they grew stiff and numb.

“Tanner has been exemplary. The horses are splendid,” she said with forced easiness. And her answer apparently satisfied him for he grunted approvingly and settled more comfortably into his chair. For some time he did not speak, and she lay still striving to subdue the rapid beating of her heart, acutely conscious of the searching eyes that rarely left her face. But when the coffee tray had been removed he stirred restlessly. “Any letters?”

Accustomed to doing for him what he was too lazy to do for himself, she rose and fetched the pile of correspondence that had accumulated during his absence, and, going back to the sofa, watched him tearing open and throwing aside letter after letter until she could keep silent no longer.

“Aren’t you going to the Club?”

He laughed shortly. “Not me,” he said, with a glance that made her flinch. “You seem to forget I’ve been away for a fortnight. My wife’s society is good enough for me tonight.”

With an involuntary tremor she turned her head that he might not see the loathing she knew was written on her face, and picked up a novel with shaking fingers. She had not expected that he would go to the Club, and only a passionate longing to shorten the hours she must spend alone with him made her propose it. Her lips trembled as she turned the pages of the book mechanically, not reading but listening to his angry comments on the letters that were evidently not pleasing to him. He flung the last one from him with a snarl.

“That charming brother of yours is asking for trouble! Overrun his allowance again and has the cheek to write and ask for a cheque by return. I’ll see him in Hades first. I’ve warned him before the allowance is ample and that I wouldn’t raise it by a single halfpenny. Seems to think I’m made of money,” he added, kicking the letter petulantly.

The book slipped to the floor as Marny sat up with a jerk, staring at him uncomprehendingly.

“His allowance—Denis—I don’t understand,” she said slowly, with a puzzled frown.

He looked at her with a curious smile. “Don’t you, my dear?” he said unpleasantly. “Neither does Denis, apparently. No Irishman seems to understand the value of money, and I suppose Denis is only conforming to type when he fails to understand that the yearly allowance I make him has got to last a year. He can whistle for what he wants now, I shan’t give it to him.”

“But, Clyde, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she gasped, “the allowance you make him—why do you make Denis an allowance? Why can’t he live on his own money?”

Lord Geradine smiled again.

“What money?” he drawled.

She jerked her head impatiently.

“His own money, the estate money, the rents of Castle Fergus. What he—what we have always lived on. Why can’t he manage on that?”

“Because the Castle Fergus rents are paid to me,” replied her husband shortly. She looked at him blankly, putting her hand to her head with a gesture of bewilderment.

“To you,” she faltered, “the Castle Fergus rents are paid to you? But why—what have you to do with Castle Fergus? Oh, Clyde, I don’t know what you mean, truly I don’t.”

Lord Geradine heaved himself sideways in his chair and poured out a whisky with slow deliberation. “You knew your brother was in a hole when I married you,” he said at last, with a certain irritation in his voice. She winced, and the blood rushed into her white face. “I knew that,” she said shakily, “but I didn’t know it had anything to do with money. I thought it was something—something horrible he had done,” she added with a shiver, her voice breaking pitifully.

Geradine emptied the glass and pushed it from him with a hard laugh. “The one sometimes follows from the other,” he said contemptuously, “it was so with Denis. He ran through a very tidy fortune in an uncommonly short space of time, and then he did what you are pleased to call ‘something horrible’. I don’t set up to be a model of virtue myself but there are some things I jib at, and I’m damned if I’d soil my hands with the dirty game he played. But he played it once too often when I came on the scenes. He landed himself in the devil of a mess and jolly nearly ended in jail. But for my own reasons that didn’t suit me, and he was dam’ glad to take the terms I offered him. He wanted his liberty and money enough to make it amusing—I wanted you. And there you have it,” he concluded with brutal candour.

She sat quite still, looking at him fixedly her face colourless, trying to realize the meaning of what he had told her. At the moment she hardly knew which she hated most, the brother who had held his sister so cheaply or the man who had been content to drive so shameful a bargain to obtain what he wanted.

“He sold me to you,” she said at last. And the scorn in her voice sent him out of his chair with an oath that made her shudder, “Oh, for God’s sake don’t make a tragedy out of it,” he cried angrily. “In any case it’s ancient history. You knew that Denis had a reason for pressing our marriage. I don’t know what fancy tale he told you, and I don’t care. We are married and there’s an end of it. And there’s no earthly need to cut up so rough about it. You didn’t do so badly for yourself, you blessed little innocent—and I’m not complaining. Don’t be a little fool, Marny. I mayn’t be a saint but I’m dam’ fond of you. I wanted you the first minute I laid eyes on you, and I generally get what I want,” he added with a complacent laugh, dropping down on the sofa beside her. Then his voice changed as he slid his hand slowly up the soft cool arm under the loose sleeve of her teagown. “I’ve been wanting you pretty badly this last fortnight,” he whispered thickly, and flung his arms around her with sudden violence. For a moment he held her, trembling and helpless in his fierce embrace, and she felt the heavy beating of his heart as he stared down at her with hot desire flaming in his red flecked eyes. Then he laughed again, a laugh that made her want to shriek, that made every nerve in her body quiver with passionate revolt, and pushed her from him.

“Run along,” he said quickly, “and don’t keep me waiting the infernal age you usually do. Tell that old woman to clear out in double quick time if she values her place.”

Beyond the door, free from his watching eyes, she buried her face in her hands with a groan of agony. For how many more years, oh, merciful God, must she endure this life of horrible bondage? Would she never be free—never escape from his brutality till death released her. If she could only die—but she was too strong to die. Misery did not kill. She would live—live until the beauty that was all he cared for faded, live until he had drained from her the strength and vitality that had attracted him. And afterwards? For her there was no afterwards, no hope, no consolation. There was only the present with its difficulties and suffering. The present! She started nervously. How long had she stood there? With a convulsive shudder she went swiftly across the dim lit hall.

And as she passed her husband’s dressing room the door opened suddenly and she came face to face with his Arab valet. She had not seen the man since his return and, forcing a smile to her trembling lips, she nodded to him with the kindly greeting she gave invariably to every member of the household. But as he turned to her the words died in an inarticulate gasp and she halted abruptly, staring with horror at the terrible mark that, stretching from forehead to chin, disfigured his face—a mark that could only have been caused by the slashing cut of a powerfully driven whip. “Malec—” she cried aghast. But with a quick salaam the man drew back and, slipping past her, vanished down the passage with the lithe noiselessness of his race. She stood as if turned to stone, breathing heavily, her clenched hands pressed against her throbbing temples, sickened by what she had seen. “How can he—oh, how can he?” she moaned. Then with a backward glance of fearful apprehension she fled panic-stricken to the door of her own room. But there, with a tremendous effort of will, she regained her self command and went in quietly, smiling with apparent naturalness as Ann turned from the open window to meet her. The old woman’s face was radiant. She almost ran across the room.

“Miss Marny, dear, it’s all right,” she breathed eagerly. “Tanner’s just been in. The horse was brought back half an hour ago and he’s not a penny the worse.”

For an instant Marny looked at her strangely. Then she sank into a chair with a gasp of relief, and stretched out her hands tremblingly.

“Ann—oh, Ann!” she whispered.

CHAPTER IV

At the close of a hot afternoon, about three weeks after his return to Algiers, Carew was sitting in the Governor General’s private room at the Winter Palace.

Staring out of the window, a neglected cigarette drooping between his lips, he was listening without attending to the faint strains of the Zouave band echoing from the Place du Gouvernement, drumming absently with his fingers on the table before him which was littered with maps and plans and scattered typewritten sheets. For the best part of two hours he had been repeating the story of his last journey, and the hardly won concession for the benefit of an interested and detail-loving representative of the Ministry of the Interior who was returning the next day to Paris after an extensive and carefully shepherded tour through the northern provinces of Algeria.

Carew’s mission successfully terminated and his report duly handed in to headquarters, he had had no wish to be further identified with the enterprise. He was glad to be of use to the Administration; anxious always, when opportunity offered, to assist in promoting a better understanding between the rulers of the country and its native part of his life’s work. He was not inclined to magnify the importance of what he did and he was actuated by no desire for personal gain or advantage. He was content to give his help when it was required and let others take the kudos. He worked solely for love of the country and admiration of its administrators. The Governor General and the Commander-in-Chief, both hard-working conscientious men who governed a difficult country with tact and discretion, were his personal friends, and he considered himself amply rewarded if his own endeavors in any way eased the burden of their responsibilities.

But today, for the first time, he had yielded to the often expressed wish of General Sanois—who administered the particular part of the Sahara under discussion—that his really valuable aid should be more intimately known to the home authorities.

The interview had passed off successfully. The illustrious visitor had shown a wide knowledge of and a deep personal interest in the affairs of the country which had gone far to lessen the instinctive feeling of hostility with which the two men primarily responsible for its well-being, had viewed his advent. He had listened carefully to Carew’s story, gripping the major points of importance sanely and intelligently, and had been loud in his approval of the work done. With Gallic courtesy and enthusiasm he had congratulated all concerned, expressing his own and his country’s indebtedness to the three men he addressed in a felicitous little speech that hinted at much he did not say outright, and, with a final interchange of compliments, had at last betaken himself to his waiting carriage whither the Governor and General Sanois had accompanied him.

And Carew, left for a few moments alone in the cool pleasant room, had fallen into a profound reverie that was in no way connected with the events of the afternoon.

The sound of approaching voices roused him and he turned reluctantly from the window as the stout, smiling little Governor bustled in, followed by his tall, grave-faced army colleague, and a slim, delicate-looking youth who went silently to a desk in a far corner.

The Governor dropped into a chair with a little grunt, mopped his heated forehead vigorously and beamed with evident satisfaction on his companions.

“That’s over,” he remarked in a tone of relief. “I usually have a crise de nerfs after these visits. But this one was better than most, Dieu merci! Some of them—oh, la! la!” He broke off with a comical grimace, flourishing his handkerchief expressively. Then with a shrug and a gay laugh he tapped Carew’s knee confidentially with a podgy forefinger.

“Everything goes à merveille, my dear Carew. Our friend is charmed with all he has seen, has been pleased to compliment me on the state of the country, and has swallowed all the extravagant demands of our good Sanois here without turning a hair. Providing he remembers all he has promised, providing his interest is as great as he represents, there should be speedily allowed to us some alterations in administration we have long asked for in vain. Our hands have been tied too tightly, voyez-vous. He sees the necessity for loosening them somewhat. I am not expecting the millennium—I have lived too long to expect anything very much, particularly of politicians—but I am hopeful, decidedly hopeful. If it were not so exhausting I might even allow myself to become enthusiastic. But I gave up enthusiasms when I came to Algeria—so very detrimental to the nerves.” Again he demonstrated languidly with his handkerchief, and then patted his chest significantly. “And some little decorations will probably follow, hein? We need not attach too much importance to them, perhaps, but they are pleasant to receive, oh, yes, decidedly very pleasant to receive.”

“For me, I would rather receive the extra battery I asked for,” growled the General.

The little Governor looked up at him with an expression of pained protest. “Ah, you soldiers—you and your guns! Brute force, brute force—that’s all you think of,” he murmured reprovingly. Then he smiled again, waving his hands as though dismissing the unpleasant idea his colleague’s words suggested.

“You will dine with me tonight,” he said genially, “both of you? We must celebrate the occasion. And afterwards, perhaps, for an hour or two, the opera? Not very amusing but—” he shrugged whimsically and offered Carew his cigarette case.

For a few minutes longer they talked of the possibilities of the new régime in prospect, and then the General rose to go with a vague reference to a mass of correspondence awaiting his attention.

“Are you coming my way?” he asked, turning to the Englishman. But Carew shook his head.

“I’ve an appointment in the Casbar this evening,” he said, shuffling some papers together and slipping them into his breast pocket.

Sanois laughed grimly and looked up from the sword-belt he was buckling with a suspicion of eagerness in his keen eyes. “It would be indiscreet to ask with whom, I presume? You know more about the Casbar than I do,” he said, almost grudgingly. “You’ve friends everywhere, Carew. Some of them I’d like to lay my hands on,” he added meaningly.

Carew smiled faintly. “Possibly,” he said coolly, “but my ‘friends’ are useful. And until they let me down I can’t very well help you to any information you may want concerning them. That was agreed,” he added, his voice hardening slightly.

“Word of an Englishman, eh?” said the General with another grim laugh, and stalked off.

The Governor looked at the closing door with his smiling features puckered up disapprovingly. “An excellent fellow, but blood thirsty—very blood thirsty,” he murmured, with the least little touch of regret in his voice as if he deprecated an attitude with which in reality he thoroughly concurred.

But Carew’s thoughts were not concerned with the man who had just left the room.

Crossing to the open window he stood for some time without speaking, his hands plunged deep in his jacket pockets, scowling at the palms in the garden beneath. And accustomed to his frequent and protracted silences his host, pleasantly somnolent with the beat and tired with the excitement of the day, made no attempt to force conversation. Stretched comfortably in a capacious armchair he toyed idly with a cigarette and sipped the vermouth his guest had declined, thoroughly content with himself and the world at large, until Carew’s voice broke in suddenly on thoughts that were lightly alternating between the happy results of the afternoon’s interview and the gastronomic delights of the coming dinner.

“There is a compatriot of mine, a certain Viscount Geradine, who has de Granier’s villa this winter—can you tell me anything about him?”

The cherubic little Governor looked vaguely embarrassed. “Nothing of very much good, I am afraid,” he said slowly, “he is not, unfortunately, an ornament to your usually so distinguished aristocracy. I personally know very little of him. But one hears things—one hears things,” he repeated uncomfortably.