And then a sort of desperation seized her. She probed her mind for a form of words which should give him no further loophole to persist in his veiled menaces, for she could call them no less, one that should seize a meaning out of his allusions and crush it with a directness which could not be misunderstood. Her eyes grew hard; she rose to her feet. A step sounded in the hall, and the hangings were pushed aside. Her father stood before them. He looked at Aylmer with amazed reproach. His face, already haggard with anxiety, took on new lines of concern. "My dear sir!" he protested. "My dear sir!" And Aylmer could not resist a smile. It was the form of protest which he had used at their former meeting to veil--what? Antipathy? And now? The words were full of genuine concern. He read no longer dislike in Mr. Van Arlen's glance. The elder man's eyes had softened as they reached his. He warded off further reproaches with a question. "The news?" he cried eagerly. "The news is what?" "Good, in so far that we can gauge the direction of their flight. They have been seen passing Arzeila; the morning's gale has prevented their attempt to reach any port of Spain." "And so--?" "And so we start in pursuit with my yacht, within the hour." Aylmer stood up. "We?" he repeated. "We being--?" Van Arlen looked mildly astonished. "My daughter and I." Aylmer held out his hand with a pleading gesture. "You can't afford to despise my help," he said. "You must take me, too." Van Arlen looked at Aylmer and then, questioningly, towards his daughter. She met his glance. Here at last was the opportunity to make things plain with a vengeance. They had but politely to decline. Aylmer's voice forestalled her. "To be impartial, that was your promise," he said. "We had not got far, but at least as far as that." In spite of herself she turned and faced him. He met her glance steadily, confidently, expectant. She gave a queer, half-exasperated little laugh. "I think Captain Aylmer is a man who is easily refused nothing," she said, and passed quietly out of the room. CHAPTER X BY FAVOR OF THE FOG "I do not like this!" piped a small and dejected voice. "I came to ride a black horse, not to be bumped in this vessel forgotten of God!" In English these words would have sounded strangely from the lips of a child of six, but little John Aylmer was fluent in the Arab jargon of his grandfather's native household.