“Of course you can,” said Kitty imperiously. “You must. We leave to-morrow--we’re only here for two days--for Algiers and France. Another two days in Paris, and then London, my darling London, and work! So it’s understood?” “It desolates me,” said Cecil. “But I can’t go with you to Sidi Okba to-day.” They both saw that he meant to refuse them. “That settles it, then,” Eve agreed quietly. “You’re horrid, Mr. Thorold,” said the bewitching actress. “And if you imagine for a single moment we haven’t seen that you’ve been keeping out of our way, you’re mistaken. You must have noticed us at the station. Eve thinks you’ve got another of your----” “No, I don’t, Kitty,” said Eve quickly. “If Miss Fincastle suspects that I’ve got another of my----” he paused humorously, “Miss Fincastle is right. I _have_ got another of my---- I throw myself on your magnanimity. I am staying in Biskra under the name of Collins, and my time, like my name, is not my own.” “In that case,” Eve remarked, “we will pass on.” And they shook hands, with a certain frigidity on the part of the two girls. During the morning, M. Sylvain made no sign, and Cecil lunched in solitude at the Dar Eef, adjoining the Casino. The races being over, streams of natives, with their tents and their quadrupeds, were leaving Biskra for the desert; they made an interminable procession which could be seen from the window of the Dar Eef coffee room. Cecil was idly watching this procession, when a hand touched his shoulder. He turned and saw a gendarme. “Monsieur Collang?” questioned the gendarme. Cecil assented. “_Voulez-vous avoir l’obligeance de me suivre, monsieur?_” Cecil obediently followed, and found in the street M. Sylvain well wrapped up, and seated in an open carriage. “I have need of you,” said M. Sylvain. “Can you come at once?” “Certainly.” In two minutes they were driving away together into the desert. “Our destination is Sidi Okba,” said M. Sylvain. “A curious place.” The road (so called) led across the Biskra River (so called), and then in a straight line eastwards. The river had about the depth of a dinner plate. As for the road, in some parts it not only merely failed to be a road--it was nothing but virgin desert, intact; at its best it was a heaving and treacherous mixture of sand and pebbles, through which, and not over which, the two unhappy horses had to drag M. Sylvain’s unfortunate open carriage. M. Sylvain himself drove. “I am well acquainted with this part of the desert,” he said. “We have strange cases sometimes. And when I am on important business, I never trust an Arab. By the way, you have a revolver? I do not anticipate danger, but----” “I have one,” said Cecil. “And it is loaded?” Cecil took the weapon from his hip pocket and examined it. “It is loaded,” he said.