One could read a symbol in its curling smoke of the fiery spirit yet existent in the lithe, young, prone, boyish body as well as the indubitable indication of an unbreakable habit. But there was so little time for reading anything, although it must be admitted that the light was excellent for even an Edison cannot vie with that real thing which you get on the Sahara. But to get back to Verbeena. And high time too! For the big, brown devil had her! Right in his arms. Across his horse! And wrapped up in his great, long white cloak. Not any too white either. She--already she was beginning to feel she was she--Verbeena Mayonnaise, was caught, trapped, trussed up in the folds of that white cloak of his, utterly helpless and like a week's wash! It was horrible, awful, terrible and very uncomfortable. Moreover, the humiliation of it was meticulously genuine. And what could she do? Jiu jitsu she had but it wasn't worth a jitney to a person in a cocoon! By the same token all her gymnasium and other athletic perfections which had trained her fit to give Georges Carpentier or Jacques Dempsey a stiff battle now went blah. Additionally, this big heap Arab chief that had snared her she knew--thrillingly knew--was hefty. He was managing his fiery steed one-handed, beautifully, better than any stableyard virtuoso she had ever known at 'ome. His other arm about her was like a hoop of steel. Or a lobster's claw. She felt pinched. And, in truth, she was. She was in the hands of the Shereef. She tried to scream. But when she did so she only succeeded in eating a section of his flowing white robe. She tried to think. But she might as well have been her brother, Tawdry. She tried to smoke. And that was worst of all. Her arms were so encumbered she couldn't get at any of her cigarette cases. Not that she was left entirely without tobacco. The Sahara lady-snatcher's garments rang with the odor of it. To add to her agony, her snippy little nose smarted keenly and she knew it must be red as a beet from sunburn. And she was helpless to get out her powder puff. Despite her manly training, the powder-puff habit was one which she had always practiced in common with all the other Cambridge girls and fellows. Cumulatively upon these conditions of despair, she began to wonder what the deuce this bally coot meant to do with her! One thing certain was that he was seriously, perhaps permanently upsetting her scheme, her plan, her idea for junketing forth by her lonely into the desert. Such a perfectly good plan! One that would forever end her being dependent on Lord Tawdry's luck at bridge and forever relieve her of the necessity of getting Americans at the foreign hotels to stake her at games of stud poker. Ah--it had been no idle journey--no mere whimsy! It had been designed to bring her wealth, fame, and a glory the most transcendent of her times. The marriage of Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks had suggested it.