A man looked up as they entered, a dark-skinned, low-browed Israelite, who greeted them with an obsequiously furtive air. He sat cross-legged upon a turned-up chest and plied his needle upon an exceedingly ragged pair of trousers. A heap of other garments lay at his elbow. His trade was evidently that of mending tailor. "This deposit for contraband of which you spoke last night?" asked Muhammed, without preamble. "Where is it?" The look of furtive expectancy in the tailor's eyes became active alarm. "What do you fear?" he asked shrilly. "A search? There are fifteen thousand cartridges awaiting transport." "The search will not be for those, but for these," said the Moor, pointing to Landon and his son. "And there is as great a ruin attached to the finding of the one as the other. You must prevent that." The Jew rose quickly and barred the door. With alert movements he gathered up the smoking ashes from the hearth and emptied them into a shallow pan. He covered his hand with a cloth, seized the pothook which hung from the entrance of the chimney, and moved it laboriously aside. As he did so the hearthstone moved slowly downwards as if on a hinge. A flight of steps led into the darkness. Muhammed indicated the opening with a shrug. "The best we can do, Sidi," he deprecated. "Till matters adjust themselves you must keep company with Yakoob's contraband." Landon shrugged his shoulders. "Air?" he questioned laconically. "It is supplied--how?" Muhammed passed on the question. The Jew pointed to the bosom of his bournous, which rose and fell in the draught which rose from below. "There are innumerable crevices which open through the wall of the fort ditch," he said. "For this reason the Sidi must not use a light--at night." Landon shrugged his shoulders pessimistically, and took his son by the hand. "Come, my boy," he said. "We are going to play that childhood's favorite and most successful comedy--the Robbers in the Cave. You and I are to be the leaders of the gang." Little John peered doubtfully into the darkness. "And Muhammed?" he asked, looking at the Moor with expectant, trusting eyes. There was a queer intensity in the Moor's glance as he bent over the small figure hesitating at the head of the steps. His smile was kindly and reassuring. "I am the robber who goes abroad, prowling to find wicked rich men who deserve robbing," he said. "I return shortly, little lord. Have no fear." Little John nodded gravely and took his father's hand. The two paced solemnly down into the cellar. The hearthstone was replaced, the cinders set smoking upon it again. With a sigh Yakoob took up another deplorable pair of trousers and bit off a length of thread. Muhammed passed out into the street. Five minutes later he stood on the quayside, watching the motor launch which slid out of the shadow cast on the still waters by _The Morning Star_.