"A sheik's daughter--?" said Ryder in a mildly wondering voice. From his emphasis one might have inferred he was saying, "How odd! I don't remember any sheik's daughter--" A queer uncomfortable flush spread fanways from Thatcher's thin temples and rayed across his high cheekbones. He did not look at either of the men as he murmured, "It's most peculiar, but that Arab horse--the sheik claims the horse is his, too. He says you rode off on it, with his daughter." "That's all right," said Ryder absently. "I don't want the horse.... But you say the sheik's there? What does he look like? Thin--with blond mustaches?" "Oh, no, no, not at all. He is quite heavy and bearded--one-eyed, if I recollect. But there _is_ a man with a blond mustache who appears to do the directing--" "And you mean they are searching?" said Ryder abruptly. "You've let them in--?" "They have warrants," Thatcher protested. "And there are proper policemen conducting the search--" "My good God! Where are they now? Not coming _here_? I don't have any policemen trampling here and meddling with my finds--tell them to clear out, Thatcher, you know there's no sheik's daughter here!" Ryder gave a quick laugh but the impression of his laughter was not as sharp as the impression of his alarm. "I did tell them it was preposterous," Thatcher began, "but, you see, after finding the horse--" "Oh, the horse! I got him for a song--of course the beggar is stolen. Give him back, if they claim him. But as for any sheik's daughter--keep the crowd out, Thatcher, I won't have them here, not in these tombs--" "I tell you they are policemen--they are armed--you can't resist--" "How many are they? A lot? But they'll take your word, won't they? Look here, McLean, can't you settle this for me and keep them out?" "The natives have been talking," murmured Thatcher, reddening still deeper, "and they have said enough about your riding in at night and--and keeping to this tomb all day to make the men very suspicious. They are watching this one now--" "Then keep them back--long as you can. For God's sake," entreated Ryder with that strange passionate violence. "Andy--you do something--hold them back. Give me time. I--I've got to get some things together--I won't have them at my things--hold them back--out here--till I come." He was gone. Gone tearing back into the gloom and silence of his tomb. And McLean and Thatcher, astounded witnesses of his outburst, turned speedily to the entrance, avoiding each other's eyes. Agitatedly Thatcher was murmuring that Ryder's finds were valuable, immensely valuable, and it was disturbing to contemplate any invasion, and with equal agitation but more mechanical calm McLean was murmuring back that he understood--he quite understood--