“Well, I must say I’m glad to have got the boss out of the city without a fight, Mr Mansfield. There is an elderly military character who’s been real pressing in his inquiries after him each day since we came, and I guess his intentions are not healthy. I interviewed him on behalf of the boss, but when I found that my friend did the general utility business for the Princess of Dardania, and had something big on hand, you bet his messages reached me and stopped there. The language he made use of yesterday when I told him the Count was sick yet was remarkably free, and he didn’t see fit to cool down until I just had him into the yard and showed him a little fancy shooting. Guess he won’t try the fire-eating tip again with me, after seeing me print my initials on the wall in bullets, but I don’t mind telling you I’ve been real scared lest he should be fooling round somewhere on the street this morning and meet the boss.” “But you don’t think the Count would fight him?” “You bet your life he would, and paint the town red with his vital fluid, too, if he was in his proper form. But he’s sick and strung-up both, and I don’t care for the risk.” “Isn’t it wonderful how well he sits his horse?” asked Mansfield, looking at Cyril as he rode in front. “That’s what I tell you, he’s strung-up for this job. He has something big in his eye that I don’t see. I must figure it out.” Mr Hicks relapsed into silence, pondering busily the problem he had set himself, and Mansfield did not disturb his meditations as they rode through the fruit-gardens and walnut-groves surrounding the city, and then across the bare fields, populous just now with camels belonging to friendly Arabs. The tribesmen were encamped in the neighbourhood of the town for the double purpose of obtaining their annual store of corn from the farmers, and allowing their camels the luxury of grazing upon the stubble, which the peasants did not resent, since it helped to clear the fields for the ploughing which would take place when the winter rains were over. A little farther, and the signs of cultivation became more rare, one or two villages were passed, each with its belt of fertile soil, and then the desert itself came into view--not a wide flat expanse of sand, but a region of stony hills and rugged valleys, with here and there a patch of coarse grass or starved-looking bushes. The blind man, feeling the way with the staff he carried, seemed never at a loss to discover the track, which was hardly distinguishable even to the eye, and at length, on rounding the shoulder of a hillock in no way more remarkable than the rest, he turned to Cyril and remarked-- “This is the place where the sheikh will meet my lord.” “Then he is late,” said Cyril, looking round.