The Arab saluted again and set off at a steady trot along the _wâdi_. Professor Blackwell peered into the kitchen. He found nothing more formidable going forward than the slow stewing of a sort of vegetable ragout; and so he contentedly lighted his pipe, which had gone out. Already the morning was uncomfortably hot, and Professor Blackwell’s costume must have occasioned some little comment had he seen fit to wear it before a class of students at Columbia. It consisted of canvas shoes, B.V.D’s and a sun helmet. The more exposed parts of his person presented a glistening appearance, occasioned by the presence of a certain pungent oil with which he anointed himself against the onset of mosquitoes and sand flies. About half an hour later Danbazzar appeared, followed by the Arab messenger. His was a picturesque and attractive figure. His great height and breadth of shoulder appeared to best advantage in such attire as he wore now: A very clean white shirt with sleeves rolled up above the elbow, the low pointed collar unbuttoned, white breeches, and tan riding boots. He wore also a soft felt hat, wide brimmed, light gray in colour, and he held a cigar between his small, strong-looking teeth. “You got the signal?” he asked abruptly. Professor Blackwell nodded. “Half an hour ago,” he replied. “Then we can expect him almost any time,” said Danbazzar. “Have you got everything ready to be moved up to the tomb?” the Professor asked. “Yes.” Danbazzar nodded. “I’m only waiting to get the measure of Tawwab. Then I’ll shoot it all along.” They were apparently deep in conversation and quite unaware of the presence of any stranger, when presently Ahmed Tawwab strolled into the _wâdi_. He was smoking a cigarette and looking about him, as one who lounges in Bond Street, or idly glances at the notices in the lobby of his club. Danbazzar suddenly saw him, and: “Why! Mr. Tawwab!” he exclaimed, and jumped up. “Look, Professor, who’s here!” “Surely, Mr. Tawwab?” the Professor murmured. “How fortunate you find us at home!” Mr. Tawwab agreed that Fate had indeed been very kind, coffee was prepared, and a perfectly meaningless conversation began. After a long time: “Mr. Cumberland and your other young friend will be returning shortly?” Mr. Tawwab inquired. “Probably in an hour or so,” Danbazzar assured him. “They are visiting one of the more interesting tombs.” “Ah! the tombs--Yes. I thought they might be shooting.” “Shooting?” Danbazzar echoed. “No, I don’t think so; not this morning.” “I thought I heard a shot,” Mr. Tawwab explained, “down on the edge of the swampy ground, to the left of the road. You know the spot I mean?” “Quite!” murmured Professor Blackwell. “Quite! It might have been one of our fellows after quail.” “Sure it might,” Danbazzar agreed. “We’re devils for poultry in this camp.” “You are wise, however, in delaying your departure,” said the Egyptian. “How is that?” Professor Blackwell asked politely.