“Still sensitive to external conditions,” said Weston. “That is rather curious. Pinch him, will you?” I pinched Machmout; he did not pay the slightest attention. “In the last house of the street, and in the doorway stands a man. Ah! ah!” cried the boy suddenly, “it is the Black Magic he knows. Don’t let him come. He is going out of the house,” he shrieked, “he is coming--no, he is going the other way, towards the moon and the grave. He has the Black Magic with him, which can raise the dead, and he has a murdering knife, and a spade. I cannot see his face for the Black Magic is between it and my eyes.” Weston had got up, and, like me, was hanging on Machmout’s words. “We will go there,” he said. “Here is an opportunity of testing it. Listen a moment.” “He is walking, walking, walking,” piped Machmout, “still walking to the moon and the grave. The moon sits no longer on the desert, but has sprung up a little way.” I pointed out of the window. “That at any rate is true,” I said. Weston took the cloth out of Machmout’s hand, and the piping ceased. In a moment he stretched himself, and rubbed his eyes. “Khalás,” he said. “Yes, it is Khalás.” “Did I tell you of the sitt in England?” he asked. “Yes, oh, yes,” I answered; “thank you, little Machmout. The White Magic was very good to-night. Get you to bed.” Machmout trotted obediently out of the room, and Weston closed the door after him. “We must be quick,” he said. “It is worth while going and giving the thing a chance, though I wish he had seen something less gruesome. The odd thing is that he was not at the funeral, and yet he describes the grave accurately. What do you make of it?” “I make that the White Magic has shown Machmout that somebody with black magic is going to Abdul’s grave, perhaps to rob it,” I answered resolutely. “What are we to do when we get there?” asked Weston. “See the Black Magic at work. Personally I am in a blue funk. So are you.” “There is no such thing as Black Magic,” said Weston. “Ah, I have it. Give me that orange.” Weston rapidly skinned it, and cut from the rind two circles as big as a five shilling piece, and two long, white fangs of skin. The first he fixed in his eye, the two latter in the corners of his mouth. “The spirit of Black Magic?” I asked. “The same.” He took up a long black burnous and wrapped it round him. Even in the bright lamp light, the spirit of black magic was a sufficiently terrific personage. “I don’t believe in black magic,” he said, “but others do. If it is necessary to put a stop to--to anything that is going on, we will hoist the man on his own petard. Come along. Whom do you suspect it is--I mean, of course, who was the person you were thinking of when your thoughts were transferred to Machmout.” “What Machmout said,” I answered, “suggested Achmet to me.” Weston indulged in a laugh of scientific incredulity, and we set off.