At this second interview Tom explained to Abdul the object he had in view, and invited his assistance, Mr. Greatorex promising that if he would guide Tom to the spot where the British diplomatist was held captive he should be rewarded with a sum equal to what he had lost through the wreck. Further, if Sir Mark Ingleton should actually be got away safely, the sum should be doubled. Abdul jumped at the offer, and listened respectfully enough when Mr. Greatorex went on to say that he hoped the money would not be put to bad uses. “Everything happens by the will of Allah,” he said; “what is to be, must be.” It was dusk when the little party broke up. Nobody noticed a figure wriggle away from a ventilating grating over the skylight of the cabin. Salathiel ben Ezra had watched these conferences between the Moor and the Christians with much curiosity and suspicion, and without attracting the attention of any one on deck he had contrived to steal to a spot where he overheard a considerable part of the conversation. Before he turned in, Tom had a long talk with Mr. Greatorex, which took an unexpected trend. The two were alone in the cabin. Tom was in the highest spirits, for the greatest difficulty he had foreseen—the difficulty of finding his way about the hill village when he should arrive at it—seemed to have been removed now that he had secured a guide in Abdul. “You see, it’s just about there,” he said, putting his finger down on the map he had unrolled and spread on the table. “It is barely a hundred miles inland, and without putting any strain on the engines I can do it comfortably in four hours. Of course, we must arrive after dark; so to-morrow night I think we’ll make a start—Timothy and I and the Moor.” Then it was that the unexpected happened. Mr. Greatorex had been staring gravely at the map. Suddenly he brought his fist down on it with a bang. “Look here, Tom,” he said, “we’ll _drop_ it.” Tom was taken too much aback for words. “Yes, we’ll drop it. I won’t _allow_ it. Suppose anything goes wrong with the machine, where _are_ you? tell me that! In those hills—wild country, wild men—_fanatics_, you know: hate all Christians, no sense of law and order, won’t pay their taxes, don’t care tuppence for their rulers—oh! I’ve _read_ all about ’em, you know, and ‘pon my soul I don’t know what I was thinking of to come out here at all. We’ve had a pleasant run, we’ve tested the airship; it’ll _do_, Tom: but now we’ll go _back_, my boy, to our land of peace and settled government.” “But what about Sir Mark Ingleton?” “Hang Ingleton! Ingleton never invented anything! If those Moors get hold of you, England loses an inventor and I lose my man. No, no; we mustn’t meddle with state affairs.” And then Tom spent an hour in patiently combatting Mr. Greatorex’s objections, and in the end had for his meagre reward the indecisive remark— “Well, we’ll see, Tom, we’ll _see_.”