The Sheik

She sent the girl away at last, and noticed that she avoided passing

into the adjoining room, but vanished instead through the curtains

leading into the bathroom. Did that mean that in the outer room the

Arab Sheik was waiting? The thought banished the self-control she had

regained and sent her weakly on to the side of the bed with her face

hidden in her hands. Was he there? Her questions to the little

waiting-girl had only been concerned with the whereabouts of the camp

to which she had been brought and also of the fate of the caravan; of

the man himself she had not been able to bring herself to speak. The

strange fear that he had inspired in her filled her with rage and

humiliation. The thought of seeing him again brought a shame that was

unspeakable. But she conquered the agitation that threatened to grow

beyond restraint, pride helping her again. It was better to face the

inevitable of her own free will than be fetched whether she would or

not. For she knew now the strength of the man who had abducted her,

knew that physically she was helpless against him. She raised her head

and listened. It was very silent in the next room. Perhaps she was to

be allowed a further respite. She jerked her head impatiently at her

own hesitation. "Coward!" she whispered again contemptuously, and flung

across the room. But at the curtains she halted for a moment, then with

set face drew them aside and went through.

The respite had been granted, the room appeared to be empty. But as she

crossed the thick rugs her heart leapt suddenly into her throat, for

she became aware of a man standing in the open doorway. His back was

turned to her, but in a moment she saw that the short, slim figure in

white linen European clothes bore no resemblance to the tall Arab she

had expected to see. She thought her footsteps were noiseless, but he

turned with a little quick bow. A typical Frenchman with narrow, alert,

clean-shaven face, sleek black hair and dark restless eyes. His legs

were slightly bowed and he stooped a little; his appearance was that of

a jockey with the manners of a well-trained servant. Diana coloured

hotly under his glance, but his eyes were lowered instantly.

"Madame is doubtless ready for lunch." He spoke rapidly, but his voice

was low and pleasant. His movements were as quick and as quiet as his

voice, and in a dream Diana found herself in a few moments before a

lunch that was perfectly cooked and daintily served. The man hovered

about her solicitously, attending to her wants with dexterous hands and

watchful eyes that anticipated every need. She was bewildered, faint

from want of food, everything seemed unreal. For the moment she could

just sit still and be waited on by the soft-footed, soft-spoken

manservant who seemed such a curious adjunct to the household of an

Arab chief.