The Sheik

"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."

"Why?" She tried to keep silent, but the question was forced from her,

and she waited tense for his answer. Tales of ruthless Arab cruelty

surged through her mind. What had been the fate of the unfortunate

caravan leader? Her eyes closed and her throat grew dry.

"There was no need for any murder," he continued sarcastically. "When

you come to know me better you will realise that I do not leave too

much to chance. 'All things are with Allah, blessed be his name.' Good!

But it is well to remember that Allah does not always concern himself

with the affairs of men, and arrange accordingly. If I had left this

affair to chance there might very easily have been, as you suggest,

murder done--though we do not call it murder in the desert. It was very

simple. Voyons! You paid Mustafa Ali well to guide you in the

desert. I paid him better to lead you to me. I paid him well enough to

make him content to remove himself from Biskra, where awkward questions

might be asked, to another sphere of usefulness where he is not known,

and where he can build up for himself a new reputation as a caravan

leader."

There was another silence and her hands went groping to her throat. It

had been no chance affair then--no accidental meeting that the Arab

chief had turned to his own account, but an organised outrage that had

been carefully planned from the beginning. From the very outset she had

been a dupe. She ground her teeth with rage. Her suave, subservient

guide had been leading her the whole time, not in the direction that

had been mapped out in Biskra, but towards the man who had bought him

to betray his trust. Mustafa Ali's shifting eyes, his desire to hurry

her from the oasis where they had rested at mid-day, his tone were all

explained. He had acted well. The last touch--the imaginary wound that

had toppled him slowly out of his saddle had been a masterpiece, she

reflected bitterly. Nothing had been omitted to make the attempt a

success.