The more Pinckney thinks of it, the more uneasy he gets, and when four o'clock comes next day, with no Spotty showin' up, he begins to have furrows in his brow. "If he's been done away with, it's my fault," says Pinckney. "Ah, don't start worryin' yet," says I. "Give him time." By five o'clock, though, Pinckney has imagined all sorts of things,--Spotty bein' found carved up and sewed in a sack, and him called into court to testify as to where he saw him last. "And all because I gave him that money!" he groans. "Say, can it!" says I. "Them sensation pictures of yours are makin' me nervous. Here, I'll go down and see if they've finished wipin' off the daggers, while you send Swifty out after something soothin'." With that off I hikes as a rescue expedition. I finds the red flag still out, the sample rug still in place; but there's no Spotty in evidence. Neither is there any sign of the girl. So I walks into the store, gazin' around sharp for any stains on the floor. Out from behind a curtain at the far end of the shop comes a fat, wicked lookin' old pirate, with a dark greasy face and shiny little eyes like a pair of needles. He's wearin' a dinky gold-braided cap, baggy trousers, and he carries a long pipe in one hand. If he didn't look like he'd do extemporaneous surgery for the sake of a dollar bill, then I'm no judge. I've got in too far to look up a cop, so I takes a chance on a strong bluff. "Say, you!" I sings out. "What's happened to Spotty?" "Spot-tee?" says he. "Spot-tee?" He shrugs his shoulders and pretends to look dazed. "Yes, Spotty," says I, "red-headed, freckle-faced young gent. You know him." "Ah!" says he, tappin' his head. "The golden crowned! El Sareef Ka-heel?" "That's the name, Cahill," says I. "He's a friend of a friend of mine, and you might as well get it through your nut right now that if anything's happened to him----" "You are a friend of Sareef Ka-heel?" he breaks in, eyin' me suspicious. "Once removed," says I; "but it amounts to the same thing. Now where is he?" "For a friend--well, I know not," says the old boy, kind of hesitatin'. Then, with another shrug, he makes up his mind. "So it shall be. Come. You shall see the Sareef." At that he beckons me to follow and starts towards the back. I went through one dark room, expectin' to feel a knife in my ribs every minute, and then we goes through another. Next thing I knew we're out in a little back yard, half full of empty cases and crates. In the middle of a clear space is a big brown tent, with the flap pinned back. "Here," says the old gent, "your friend, the Sareef Ka-heel!"