“What’s the use, sir?” was on Willard’s lips; but instead of speaking he threw himself down on the divan. There was to be no prayer-meeting that afternoon, and the two men sat silent, gazing at the back of Ayoub’s head. A smell of disinfectants hung in the heavy air.... “Where’s Myriem?” Willard asked, to say something. “I believe she had a ceremony of some sort ... a family affair....” “A circumcision, I suppose?” Mr. Blandhorn did not answer, and Willard was sorry he had made the suggestion. It would simply serve as another reminder of their failure.... He stole a furtive glance at Mr. Blandhorn, nervously wondering if the time had come to speak of the French official’s warning. He had put off doing so, half-hoping it would not be necessary. The old man seemed so calm, so like his usual self, that it might be wiser to let the matter drop. Perhaps he had already forgotten the scene on the terrace; or perhaps he thought he had sufficiently witnessed for the Lord in shouting his insult to the muezzin. But Willard did not really believe this: he remembered the tremor which had shaken Mr. Blandhorn after the challenge, and he felt sure it was not a retrospective fear. “Our friend Spink has been with me,” said Mr. Blandhorn suddenly. “He came in soon after you left.” “Ah? I’m sorry I missed him. I thought he’d gone, from his not coming in yesterday.” “No; he leaves tomorrow morning for Mogador.” Mr. Blandhorn paused, still absently staring at the back of Ayoub’s neck; then he added: “I have asked him to take you with him.” “To take me—Harry Spink? In his automobile?” Willard gasped. His heart began to beat excitedly. “Yes. You’ll enjoy the ride. It’s a long time since you’ve been away, and you’re looking a little pulled down.” “You’re very kind, sir: so is Harry.” He paused. “But I’d rather not.” Mr. Blandhorn, turning slightly, examined him between half-dropped lids. “I have business for you—with the Consul,” he said with a certain sternness. “I don’t suppose you will object—” “Oh, of course not.” There was another pause. “Could you tell me—give me an idea—of what the business is, sir?” It was Mr. Blandhorn’s turn to appear perturbed. He coughed, passed his hand once or twice over his beard, and again fixed his gaze on Ayoub’s inscrutable nape. “I wish to send a letter to the Consul.” “A letter? If it’s only a letter, couldn’t Spink take it?” “Undoubtedly. I might also send it by post—if I cared to transmit it in that manner. I presumed,” added Mr. Blandhorn with threatening brows, “that you would understand I had my reasons—” “Oh, in that case, of course, sir—” Willard hesitated, and then spoke with a rush. “I saw Lieutenant Lourdenay in the bazaar yesterday—” he began. When he had finished his tale Mr. Blandhorn meditated for a long time in silence. At length he spoke in a calm voice. “And what did you answer, Willard?” “I—I said I’d tell you—” “Nothing more?” “No. Nothing.”