A crowd of visitors flocked around him, offering frightened consolation. He broke away from them violently--swearing--a primitive man who wanted to be alone with his grief. The idea uppermost in his mind was that of leaping upon a horse and setting out in pursuit. But in which direction should he pursue? One declared that the Arabs must have rode this way, another that, and yet another a third. Some one shouted--the words came to him as if through a thick curtain--that the soldiers were coming. "What the hell's the good of it!" he said, and turned away, biting his lips. When a spruce young officer came racing up the steps to gather particulars, Graham stared at him dully, said, "The Arabs have got her--my wife," and walked away. The hoof-clatter and accompanying martial disturbance were faint in the distance when Mohammed ran in to where Graham was pacing up and down in an agony of indecision--veritably on the verge of insanity. The dragoman held a broken gold chain in his hand, from which depended a big turquoise that seemed to blink in the shaded light. "Effendi," he whispered, and held it out upon trembling fingers, "it is her necklet! I found it yonder,"--pointing eastward. "_Sallee 'a-nebee!_ it is her necklet!" Graham turned, gave one wild glance at the thing, and grasped the man by the throat, glaring madly upon him. "You dog!" he shouted. "You were in the conspiracy! It was you who sent the false messages!" A moment he held him so, then dropped his hands. Mohammed fell back, choking; but no malice was in the velvet eyes. The Eastern understands and respects a great passion. "Effendi," he gasped--"I am your faithful servant, and--I cannot write! _Wa-llah!_ and by His mercy, this will save her if anything can!" He turned and ran fleetly out, Graham staring after him. It may seem singular that John Graham remained thus inert--inactive. But upon further consideration his attitude becomes explainable. He knew the futility of a blind search, and dreaded being absent if any definite clue should reach the hotel. Meanwhile, he felt that madness was not far off. "They say that they have struck out across the Arabian Desert, Mr. Graham--probably in the direction of the old caravan route." Graham did not turn; did not know nor care who spoke. "It's four hundred miles across to the caravan route," he said slowly; "four hundred miles of sand--of sand." V