But it was Miss Ottley. I stepped back, bewildered. Her hair was tucked away in a sort of turban, and she was wrapped from head to heel in a burnous that had once been white--very long ago. But the costume, though dirty, was becoming. She sank upon a camp stool and asked at once for water. She seemed very tired. My bag was empty. I hurried off without a word to the barrel in the temple. When I returned she was asleep where she sat. I touched her shoulder and she started up, suppressing a scream. "Now," said I, as she put down the cup. Miss Ottley stood up. "A bad thing has happened," she began. "The sarcophagus was filled with treasure, gold and silver in bars, and other things. The Arabs went mad. My father fought like a paladin and held them off for a day and a half. But soon after dark this evening a caravan arrived. The fight was renewed and my father was wounded. The Arabs secured the treasure and fled into the desert. The dragoman only kept faith with us. He has gone by the river to Khonsu for troops. I hurried here for you. I ran almost all the way. Will you come? Father is very ill. He has lost a lot of blood. He was shot in the shoulder." I nodded, caught up my revolver and surgical pack and rushed out of the tent. In two minutes I had saddled the donkey. Miss Ottley was standing by the door of the tent. I lifted her on the beast and we started off in silence. An hour later she spoke. "There is one thing I like about you," she announced. "You haven't much to say for yourself, but you are a worker." "Tu quoque," I replied. "You must have done that twelve miles in record time. It is not yet two o'clock." "I made it in two hours, I think." "You are an athlete, by Jove!" "I am no bread-and-butter miss, at any rate. This donkey has a bad pace, don't you think?" I kicked the brute into a trot and ran beside it. The Hill of Rakh soon began to loom large among the stars on the horizon. "I suppose you were pretty wild at our cavalier treatment of you the other evening," said Miss Ottley. "Well, yes," I admitted. "We were sorry when the fight came." "No doubt," said I. "It served us right, eh?" "That is my opinion." "Do you bear malice still?" "I am thinking of your father's wound." "That atones?" "Your twelve-mile run helps." "But you are still angry with us?" "Does it matter? I am serving you." "Be generous," said Miss Ottley. "We have been sufficiently punished. Not only have we lost the treasure, but there was no mummy in the sarcophagus." "Be a lady and apologise," I retorted. "No," said she, with a most spirited inflection. "It is not a woman's place." "Then be silent or change the topic," I growled.