"That will be all," said Verbeena. But Hulda held on. "Out you go," said the proud captive brusquely. "But----" Hulda still watched to see what disposition Verbeena meant to make of the hatpin. "Off with you," repeated Verbeena. "What? Now, then, will you go!" The distrait girl used the hatpin lavishly on Hulda. "Yumping Yiminy Allah!" shrieked the Arab girl and hit the desert with abandon. Verbeena was rummaging her luggage for cigarettes when a soft voice sounded behind her: "Madame is doubtless ready for lunch?" The voice was pleasant, indeed, operatic and even before she turned to face him Verbeena knew she was about to get her second view of the villain, Spaghetti. "Don't you call me Madame," she said fiercely, "you cowardly sandbag specialist. Don't you call me anything less than Sheika Verbeena. There's going to be a wedding around here as soon as I lay my hands on that unprincipled hoo-hoo of a Sheik of yours. And don't you forget it." With lithe, strong fingers she proceeded to put a Grecian bend in Spaghetti's Roman nose. "Do you hear?" She followed up with a little hatpin treatment while the faithful fellow let forth a coloraturo lyrico outbursto for the intervention of from twelve to fifteen hundred saints. "Hop about and get me about fifty boxes of cigarettes, one hundred each, long, fat ones, do you hear? What's that? Remember, once for all, Spaghetti, I want none of your sauce." Outside the tent Spaghetti kissed his fingers with a fierce smack, made a noise like a buzz saw through his teeth while drawing a forefinger across his throat. It was the high sign that in matters of terrible vengeance the Black Hand never muffs. "Gott in Himmel!" he snarled under his breath. "Joost wait teel da padrone, da boss, de beega da fel' geet back! You catcha sometang. See like maybe you, sapristi, don't!" Despite his feelings, however, he hot-footed a return with the cigarettes and it was to be noticed that when he bowed low and handed them to her he said: "Here, Queen." Well aware was he that he would remember that hatpin at meals for days to come and, expert chef that he was, he regarded with horror the idea of a future in which he would figure as Spaghetti enbrochette. But--aha! let the big fellow handle her! The padrone, the grand demon, him, the goldo fellow, Monseigneur, he'd mighty quick show her who was the real frito misto of that establishment! Though why in the world the boss wanted to dally with a _donna_ that looked and acted more like _wallyo_, presented a mystery Spaghetti sadly admitted to himself was too much for him to un-ravioli. So he stirred himself in her behalf for the nonce and fetched her some _cous cous_ into which he let go the red pepper with a lavish, fine Italian hand. For if she strangled to death he could always pretend he had got mixed and thought it was the cinnamon. CHAPTER VII