"The French Government has no jurisdiction over me. I am not subject to it. I am an independent chief, my own master. I recognise no government. My tribe obey me and only me." Her shaking fingers found the handkerchief for which they were groping, and she wiped the moisture that had gathered on the palms of her hands. "When I am missed----" she began desperately, trying to keep a bold front, but her assurance was leaving her. "You will not be missed for so long that it will be too late," he replied drily. "Too late! What do you mean?" she gasped. "Your own plans will stop any possibility of inquiry for some time to come." He paused, and behind her, Diana heard him strike another match. The banal little incident nearly snapped her nerves that were stretched to breaking-point. She put her hands to her head to try and stop the throbbing in her temples. "You engaged a caravan in charge of Mustafa Ali," he went on evenly, "to travel in the desert for a month. You set out from Biskra, but your intention was at the end of the time to travel northward to Oran and there dismiss the caravan. From there you were to cross to Marseilles, then to Cherbourg, where you would embark for America to follow your brother, who has already started." She listened breathlessly with an ever-increasing fear growing in her eyes. The slow, casual voice detailing her itinerary with the quiet certainty of perfect knowledge filled her with a terror that made her want to scream. She swayed a little as she stood, her eyes fixed on the endless strip of desert and gold-flecked sky visible through the opening of the tent, but she saw nothing of the undulating sand, nor the red glory of the setting sun. "How do you know--all--this?" she whispered with dry lips that trembled. "I wished to know. It was quite simple." The answer was given carelessly, and again the thin thread of smoke drifted across her face. Her anger flamed up again. "Is it money that you want? Are you holding me for ransom?" But her scornful voice faltered and died away on the last word, and it did not need his silence to convince her that it was no question of ransom. She had only spoken to try and stifle the inner conviction that grew despite her efforts to crush it. Her hands were locked together tightly, her eyes still staring out unseeing at the wonderful sunset. She felt dazed, hopeless, like a fugitive who has turned into a cul-de-sac, hemmed in on every side; there seemed no way out, no loophole of escape. She wrung her hands convulsively and a great shudder shook her. Then in her despair a faint ray of hope came. "Mustafa Ali, or one of the caravan men may have given the alarm already in Biskra--if you have not--murdered them all," she whispered jerkily. "I have not murdered them all," he rejoined shortly, "but Mustafa Ali will not give any alarm in Biskra."