without bestowing a second glance on either the carriage or its occupant carew jammed his hat down savagely over his eyes and leaped into another cab that had drawn up expectantly beside him.

he leant back against the dusty cushions, his arms folded tightly across his chest, scowling wrathfully at the busy streets. he had not seen the look of hurt disappointment that flashed into the girl’s eyes when he ignored her outstretched hand, nor heard the sharp sob that burst from her trembling lips. he had been conscious only of the raging tumult of his own feelings, of the intolerant anger that this second wholly undesired meeting had provoked. it had been an effort to be even civil—if indeed he had been civil at all, which he very much doubted. how like a woman to forget one peril so readily and court further danger without a moment’s consideration. had the lesson of three weeks ago made so little impression on her? the little fool—did she imagine that algiers was teeming with knights-errant seeking beauty in distress! his fine lips curved contemptuously as he lit a cigarette and looked at his watch with a deeper scowl. though indifferent to his own meals he disliked causing annoyance to others and the cheery little governor was a gourmet to whom a retarded dinner was a catastrophe. by now he should have been starting for the palace instead of toiling up the road to mustapha behind two extremely tired half-starved arab hacks. it was useless to urge the driver, the hill was steep and the miserable little beasts were doing their best.

stretching his long legs out more comfortably and pulling his hat further over his eyes he settled himself to wait, his mind wandering back to the desert he had so recently left but towards which his thoughts were already turning eagerly. time to complete his arrangements for another protracted trip, to restock his depleted medical equipment, and he could leave this confounded town again for the life he loved best. a life of hardship and danger, but to him a life eminently worth living. and in the end—far out amongst the sandy wastes, he hoped, where the fierce sun would beat down scorchingly on the whispering particles that would hold him in their shifting embrace, where the jackals would wail their nightly chorus under the marvel of the eastern stars—the requiem of the desert.

the desert! he drew a deep breath of heart-felt anticipation. it was calling him more compellingly than it had ever done, bringing memories of long hot rides beneath the burning sun, of the silver radiance of the peaceful moonlit nights and the never failing glory of the dawn. he smiled a little at his own enthusiasm. it was not all peace and beauty and marvellous silence. there was battle and murder and sudden death, cruelty that was inconceivable and suffering that made him set his teeth as he thought of the needless agony he had witnessed more times than he cared to remember. but despite its savagery he loved it. it was his life. it was there he had found his chosen work, it was there he hoped to die. even the thought of it was soothing to him in his present mood, and dreaming of it, he forgot the annoyance of the afternoon, forgot everything but the irresistible charm it had for him.

the villa was reached at length, the sweating horses expending their remaining reserve of strength in a final spurt of activity rushing the last fifty yards of level ground under a storm of abuse from the arab driver who drew up at the nail-studded door, set in the enclosing wall, with a self-satisfied grin that widened broadly as he caught the liberal fee tossed to him. at the sound of the approaching wheels the door had opened silently and carew passed through and went swiftly along the flower bordered pathway to the house. the single storied building was the most beautiful in mustapha superieur. built forty years before for carew’s delicate mother it was a miniature palace and stood in a garden that rivalled even that of the villa des ombres. but, preoccupied, carew had tonight no eye for the beauty of either house or garden and he did not linger as was his wont before entering the spacious mauresque hall where hosein was waiting for him in a state of visible agitation that was foreign to his usual impassive demeanour.

“praise be to allah, my lord has returned,” he murmured, his gloomy eyes lightening with evident relief. carew stared at him for a moment in puzzled astonishment, then he smiled a trifle grimly. hosein too! this was becoming monotonous. he was fully conversant with the rapidity with which reports spread in a land of rumour and intrigue, but abdul, who had unorthodox proclivities, must have been drunk indeed to boast so openly of his intentions.

“to allah the praise,” he returned conventionally. then he laughed and shrugged indifferently. “?‘the jackal howls where he dare not slay,’?” he quoted, adding over his shoulder as he moved away, “telephone to the palace that i have been detained, that i beg his excellency will not wait for me. i will join him as quickly as possible.”

he crossed the open courtyard round which the house was built and entered his bedroom, passing through to the dressing room beyond. there he found the blind boy sitting on the floor, his hands folded in his lap, his face turned towards the door with a look of strained attention. as it opened he sprang to his feet and bounded forward impetuously. with a word of warning carew caught him and swung him high in his arms. “what mischief to confess, o son of wickedness?” he teased, as he felt the slender limbs trembling against him. but the time-honoured jest did not provoke the peal of laughter he expected. instead the little face was grave and strangely set and carew put him down with a quick caress.

“who has troubled thee, saba?” he asked quietly, moving across the room to empty his pockets before changing. the boy followed him with outstretched fumbling hands. “no man has troubled me,” he answered slowly, “but, lord, my heart is sick within me. i dreamt a dream—an evil dream. and, waking, the dream is with me still. there is danger, lord, that threatens thee. in my dreams i saw clearly, but now i cannot see—i cannot see—” he broke off with a sharp little wail of anguish. a queer look crossed carew’s face as his hands closed firmly over the tiny fluttering fingers. it was not the first time that saba had shown himself to be possessed of an almost uncanny sensitiveness where the safety of the man he worshipped was concerned. ordinarily a happy, healthy-minded child there was in him an odd streak of mysticism that cropped up at rare intervals with curious results. on two previous occasions he had had a presage of danger menacing his protector that subsequent events had fully justified. too familiar with the occultism of the east to be sceptical carew was not disposed to minimise the importance of a warning that was identical with the plainer, more substantial hints he had received that afternoon, but he was in no mind to treat it with undue seriousness or show too great a credulity to the nervous boy whose upturned sightless eyes were wet with tears. he soothed him with the tenderness that marked his every dealing with him. “thou hast dreamt before,” he said gently, “and the danger has passed. so will this danger pass—”

“if allah wills.” the childish treble broke on a quivering sob and carew accepted the qualification of his assurance with a little smile. “all things are with allah,” he answered, “and it is written ‘seek not to discover that which is hidden, for behold, when the day cometh all things shall be revealed.’ and again, ‘no accident happeneth in the earth, nor in your persons, but the same was entered in the book of our decrees.’?”

a deep sigh escaped the boy and he pressed his lips on the strong brown hands clasped on his.

“so it is written—yet if thou die, i die,” he exclaimed passionately.

with wonderful gentleness carew disengaged himself.

“time to think of that when i die,” he said lightly. “meanwhile i live—and the french lord’s dinner grows cold while i chatter with a dreamer of dreams,” he added, turning away to the dressing table.

he changed quickly, and flinging a black cloak over his evening clothes paused irresolutely with his hand over a revolver that lay on the table. he was not in the habit of carrying firearms in the town of algiers but tonight there seemed justification for so doing. he might have doubts as to the truth of the warnings he had received but he would be a fool to utterly ignore them.

slipping the weapon into his hip pocket he left the room with a cheery word to saba, who was sitting mournfully amidst the discarded clothing that littered the floor, and went out to his waiting carriage.

and as the spirited black horses drew him swiftly through the night his thoughts were busy with the pathetic little figure left disconsolate in the dressing room. if anything happened to him what would be the fate of the blind boy whose whole life was bound up in his? it was a problem that had often troubled him. he had made full provision for his protege’s future and hosein, while he lived, would serve him faithfully. but saba in his blindness and with his highly-strung mystical temperament needed more than bodily comfort and faithful service. he needed what apparently only carew could give him. without carew he would pine and droop like a delicate plant torn from the parent root from which it draws its strength. for saba’s sake, then it behooved him to take precautions he would otherwise have neglected.

the town was quieter than it had been earlier in the evening and carew’s coachman, who was a noted whip, took full advantage of the empty streets, driving with customary arab recklessness but handling the excited horses magnificently until, with a fine flourish, he drew them foam-flecked to a standstill before the palace.

the governor, as carew hoped, had taken him at his word. dinner was in full swing when he entered with apologies for his lateness and slipped into the place reserved for him.

it was, in compliment to his known peculiarity, a strictly bachelor entertainment, enlivened by the presence of patrice lemaire and another equally light-hearted attache.

the governor, hospitable to his finger tips and still pleasantly excited with the success of the day’s work, was overflowing with good humour. even general sanois had relaxed somewhat of his usual gravity and condescended to occasional bursts of heavy pleasantry. but he was obviously distrait and his spasmodic attempts at conversation were punctuated by lengthy silences during which his eyes wandered frequently to carew who was sitting opposite to him. and towards the close of dinner, when the arab servants had left the room, he leaned forward with a sudden remark that was fraught with more meaning than the actual words implied.

“your friends in the casbar were exigent, it seems.”

but carew, who knew him, was not to be drawn. general sanois was usually possessed of more knowledge than he was willing to admit, and his seemingly inocuous questions were often actuated by a deliberate policy and were rarely as guileless as they appeared. and tonight his thinly veiled curiosity met with scant success. carew had no intention of being trapped into saying more than he wished to say, or of imparting what he preferred to withhold. he met the general’s intent gaze with a tolerant smile.

“don’t jibe at my friends, mon général,” he replied. “as i said this afternoon, they are useful. they serve you through me and they know it—most of them. but i picked up one piece of information this evening that will interest you—”

“tomorrow,” interrupted the governor hastily, “tomorrow, my dear carew. business tonight is taboo. if our good sanois once starts talking of his eternal affairs he will talk all through the opera, and i shall behave badly. yes, badly, i warn you. i—” the remainder of his protest was lost in the shout of laughter that burst from his irrepressible nephew.

“latest news from algeria,” chanted lemaire in the shrill nasal tones of the street newsvendor. “regrettable scene witnessed last night at the opera. fracas in the governor general’s box. his excellency and the commander-in-chief engaged in mortal combat in the presence of an excited audience. the governor not expected to recover. general sanois has fled to the desert and proclaimed himself ‘emperor of the sahara’—my dear general, i offer my service as aide-de-camp. i’m bored to extinction with writing uncle henri’s despatches,” he added with an ironical bow, dodging the dinner napkin the governor flung at his head. and in the general laugh that followed they rose from the table.

they were late in reaching the opera house and the first act was in progress when the governor, a music lover at heart, tiptoed silently into his box and settled himself attentively to listen to a work he had already heard a score of times.

carew, sitting on his left, drew his chair into the shadow of the heavy side curtain and leant back to pursue his own thoughts which the mediocre company on the stage failed to distract. the house was full, one box only—that directly facing the governor’s—being empty. carew’s gaze turned to the crowded seats with indifferent interest. it was more than two years since he had last visited the garish little theatre; it would probably be another two years before he was in it again, he reflected, as his mind ranged back to the all absorbing topic of the new expedition he was scheming. and now it seemed possible that his schemes might meet with an unexpected check. the information he had promised general sanois at dinner, which he had gleaned that afternoon during his interview with the old chief in the casbar, had in a measure upset his original calculations. it might mean a total change of plan. the needs of the government had not been included in his forthcoming trip. he had purposed a tour that should be wholly devoted to his own work, and he viewed with some dismay the possibility of further political activity. he was a free lance, of course. he could take or reject any work offered him, but the mere fact of his freedom seemed to make the sense of his moral obligation more binding. he would have to go if it became really necessary—devoutly he hoped that the necessity would not arise. he was tired of intrigue and the endless palavers of political negotiations. he was anxious to pursue his own vocation unhindered, and to travel where inclination took him rather than follow a definite route in furtherance of government schemes. there was a district, far away in the southwest, he had long wanted to visit. a district inhabited by a tribe he had heard of but with whom he had never yet come in contact. his plans of the last three weeks had centered more and more round this unknown locality that seemed to promise everything he demanded in the way of work and adventure. a strange and hostile people who guarded the secret of their desert fastness with jealous activity, fiercely resenting not only the advent of foreigners but also the encroachment of contiguous tribes. the tales he had heard of the impregnable walled-in city—a medieval survival if all the extraordinary stories anent it were true—had fired him with a desire to penetrate its hidden mysteries, to gain a footing amongst its prejudiced population. his calling had proved a passport to other inhospitable tribes, he counted on it confidently to win his admission to the secret city of stones—the name by which it was known to the nomads who avoided its vicinity. the thought of it moved him deeply. surely there was work for him within that rocky fortress could he but once pass its closely guarded gateway. the call seemed imperative, the call of suffering ignorant humanity whose misery he longed to alleviate. the need must be great, and alone he could do so little. still even the little was worth his utmost endeavour, was worth the hazardous experiment. he could but try, and trying, succeed or fail.

and as he meditated on the chances of the success he earnestly hoped for, the little theatre with its crowded seats seemed to fade before his eyes. he saw instead an endless stretch of undulating waste, sun scorched and shimmering in the burning heat, and a caravan that wound its tortuous length across the wavy ripples of the wind-whipped sand labouring towards the mirage-like battlements of the secret city towering grimly against the radiance of the western sky. the imagery was strangely clear, singularly real. the gloomy pile stood out against his mental vision with almost photographic distinctness, and as he gazed at it wonderingly he seemed to feel between his knees the easy movements of the big bay stallion, to hear the voices of the men who rode behind him, the grunting protests of the lurching camels, the creak of sweat-drenched saddles and the whispering murmur of the shifting sand.

the desert smell was pungent in his nostrils, his eyeballs ached with the blinding glare . . . .

the burst of applause that greeted the fall of the curtain woke him abruptly from his abstraction and he turned with a momentary feeling of confusion to join in the general conversation that ensued. would he ever in reality come so near to the mysterious city as he had seemed to be in imagination five minutes ago, he wondered, as he declined the governor’s invitation to smoke a cigarette in the corridor. he was still pondering it when, left alone, he rose to stretch his legs, cramped with the confined space. he made a noticeable figure standing in the front of the box, a figure that attracted universal attention. but with the complete unselfconsciousness that was so markedly a trait in his character he was unaware of the interest he aroused. incurious himself with regard to others, and reserved even with his intimate friends, he had no knowledge of the extravagant reports that for years had circulated about him, or of the excitement caused tonight by his appearance at the opera. that he was the subject of endless speculation, that he was the most discussed personage in algiers, had never entered his head. and now, absorbed in his own thoughts, he was totally oblivious of the opera glasses and lorgnettes turned in his direction.

but his wandering attention was caught at last by the arrival of late comers in the opposite box—a man who stopped in the doorway to argue noisily with the theatre attendant, and a slim white-robed girl who moved slowly to the front of the box without heeding the stormy altercation behind her. she stood looking down on the crowded seats with a curious little air of detachment as if her thoughts were far away, toying nervously with the long curling feathers of a huge ostrich fan, her heavy sable cloak slipping from her shoulders. and with the same strange irritation, the same wholly unreasonable anger he had felt before carew found himself staring at the pale sensitive face of the woman from whom he had parted only a few hours ago. was he never to be free of her, never to be free of the haunting eyes he had striven for three weeks to banish from his thoughts? was the remainder of his peace of mind to be wrecked by the continual remembrance of a woman he had no desire to remember? surely her very womanhood was sufficient reason for forgetting her. he hated women. and in the intolerant antagonism that filled him he felt that above all others he hated this particular woman whose need had forced him to lay aside his prejudice and break the oath he had sworn so many years ago. young and beautiful, she was the incarnation of all he distrusted and despised. his face darkened and he made a movement to return to his seat. but something that was stronger than his hatred stayed him. despite himself his gaze lingered on the slight girlish figure. and presently, as if drawn by some subtle telepathic influence, she seemed to become aware of the compelling stare fixed on her and slowly raised her head. for a second, across the width of the theatre, her eyes met his. but though the quick blood flamed into her face she gave no sign of recognition and turned, as from the unwarrantable scrutiny of a total stranger, to the man who was with her—the husband, carew presumed, to whom she had alluded so briefly and with such evident constraint on that first night of meeting. the husband who doubtless knew nothing of the hours she had spent in his camp; who, probably, also knew nothing of this evening’s incident in the rue annibal. his lips curled in a sneering smile and he turned with cynical amusement to look at the heavy figure lounging beside her. but the smile faded swiftly and his amusement gave place to a rush of feeling he did not at the moment understand as his eyes ranged over geradine’s massive almost ape-like limbs and coarse sullen features. an odd look swept across his face and he drew his breath in sharply. for the first time in twelve years he felt pity for a woman. but he had no time to ponder it. all thought of the girl was swamped in the wave of strange and terrible emotion that was pouring over him, shaking him with a force he had never before experienced—a sudden overwhelming sense of hostility that had sprung into violent life within him at the sight of the man in the opposite box, a fierce instinctive hatred such as he had never conceived. the realisation of it staggered him. there was no reason for it, he told himself angrily. it was preposterous, absurd. he had heard of hatred at first sight, and laughed at it. but he did not laugh now as he dragged his eyes from the face of the man he felt he hated from the bottom of his soul. he was very far from laughter. he was conscious instead of a feeling of fear—fear of himself, fear of the consequences of the appalling forces which seemed suddenly let loose within him. he had thought himself to be possessed of a perfect self-understanding. he wondered now did he know anything about himself at all. nothing, it seemed. nothing that had ever led him to imagine that some day, for no apparent cause or reason, he would contemplate the destruction of an utter stranger. for that was what it amounted to—the violent impulse that was actuating him was a passionate desire to kill. god in heaven, what had happened to him! had his whole nature undergone some sudden and horrible metamorphosis—had the wild life he had led in the desert been influencing him unconsciously until at last he had himself succumbed to the savagery and lawlessness of the people amongst whom he lived? what devil was prompting him? his mission was to save life, not to destroy it. true that during the course of his wanderings there had been occasions when he had been forced to take life, but that was different. he had killed in self-defence or in the defence of others, as he would unhesitatingly kill again if need be, as he would without compunction have killed abdul el dhib if it had proved necessary in the deserted village three weeks ago. but there was a wide gulf between justifiable homicide and murder. murder! perspiration gathered in icy drops on his forehead as his rigid lips framed the word. was he going mad! he knew that he had never felt saner in his life. it was not madness that possessed him but an inexplicable feeling of deadly enmity that was almost overmastering in its intensity.

the atmosphere of the theatre seemed suddenly stifling. the blood beat in his ears and with a sense of suffocation he brushed his hand before his eyes trying to clear the bewildering mist that had risen before them, blurring the crowded seats and the rapidly refilling orchestra. to sit out the remainder of the opera seemed an impossibility, but to surrender weakly to the impulse of the moment and leave the building was equally impossible. gripping himself he turned to go back to his seat. but as he moved a hand was thrust through his arm and patrice lemaire’s eager voice sounded close beside him, murmuring in his ear.

“look, monsieur, in the opposite box. the compatriot of whom you spoke—lord geradine, and his wife. beauty and the beast, hein? la! la! quelle brute!”

for a moment carew stood motionless, then, with a tremendous effort he forced himself to glance naturally in the direction indicated by the interested attache. a glance of the briefest possible duration. freeing himself from the nervous clasp of the impressionable young frenchman who he knew would have had a great deal more to say had his auditor been other than himself, carew drew back with a shrug of assumed indifference.

“as you say—a brute,” he said coldly, “for the rest, you are more competent to judge than i.”

lemaire accepted the retort with a little laugh of perfect good temper.

“each to his taste, monsieur. for you—horses, and for me—the ladies,” he replied gaily, and continued to stare with undisguised admiration at the fair occupant of the opposite box until the entrance of his uncle and general sanois drove him to his own seat there to evolve schemes, with his more sympathetic fellow attache, for obtaining an introduction to the beautiful englishwoman who reigned, for the moment, supreme in his susceptible and fickle heart.

to carew the time dragged out with maddening slowness. he envied sanois who, screened by the curtains as he was himself, was frankly nodding. his whole body was still throbbing from the rush of extraordinary rage that had swept him, his head was aching with the effort to understand his own feelings, to find some sane and logical reason for the mental disturbance that had seized upon him with such cataclysmic suddenness. the whole thing was inexplicable, as inexplicable as the agitation of mind that had possessed him for the last three weeks. was there any connection between them—was the one a corollary of the other? the startling thought almost forced an exclamation from his lips and he clenched his teeth as his eyes leaped involuntarily to the opposite box. what possible connection could there be—what had he to do with either of the strangely assorted couple who had each in their turn stirred him so powerfully? towards what was fate pushing him! he was conscious all at once of a feeling of helplessness. since the day that micky meredith had come so unexpectedly, reviving memories of the bitter past, everything seemed to be changed. he appeared to be no longer master of himself. he seemed to have been plunged into a vortex of circumstances over which he had no control, the end of which he could not see. the sense of impotence was galling, and he repudiated it angrily. he was damned if he was going to submit to any force of circumstance that ran counter to his own inclination. and he was damned if he would take the easy way out of the difficulty. once before in his life he had played the coward’s part and run away from a situation he was not morally strong enough to meet. he could never, if he hoped to retain the least shred of self-respect, do it again. and what, after all, was it he was trying to evade? the problematical results of an extraordinary hatred suddenly conceived for a total stranger, and the haunting recollection of a woman’s face with which he had become obsessed—he, who hated woman. good lord, what a fool! and reduced to the level of dispassionate reasoning how futile it all seemed! it was time he got back to the desert if this was the effect that civilization had on him. with a shrug of self-contempt he turned for distraction to the stage he had hitherto ignored. and until the close of the act he forced his attention to a representation that appeared to him to be hardly more fantastic and unreal than his own extravagant thoughts.

he welcomed the governor’s decision to leave during the following interval and followed him out of the box with a sigh of relief.

in the foyer, where his excellency lingered for a few moments chatting with his habitual courtesy to the director of the opera house, general sanois, whose policy was to strike while the iron was hot, seized on the opportunity to draw carew aside and ask point blank for the information that had been promised during dinner. they were still talking when they went out to the waiting carriages. the governor paused with his foot on the step of his victoria and beamed affectionately at the two tall men towering beside him.

“you are going on to the club—for a little game of bridge, perhaps?” he enquired genially.

“the club—yes. bridge—no,” replied the general bluntly. “carew and i have some business to discuss.”

the governor cast his eyes heavenwards. “business at this time of night—grand dieu!” he ejaculated. “cards i could understand, but business—” he shook his head despairingly. “you are incorrigible—and this good carew who encourages you! go and talk your business, my friends. for me, i have had an exhausting day, a very exhausting day. i shall go home to bed—at a reasonable hour for once in my life. it has been a charming evening, a charming evening. my thanks to you both.” and smiling and bowing he fluttered into the victoria and drove away.

as carew’s carriage moved into place general sanois, who had accepted his offer of a lift, shot a glance of faint surprise at the two mounted arabs who were drawn up close behind it.

“you ride en prince, tonight, my friend,” he said, frankly curious. and carew who had himself only at that moment noticed the men, shrugged with mingled amusement and annoyance. the idea of an escort would never have occurred to him, but hosein was evidently determined his master should run no risk that forethought could prevent.

“it would seem so,” he replied curtly, “but you must blame hosein, not me, for this piece of theatrical nonsense.”

the general settled his angular frame into a corner of the carriage and hitched his sword between his knees. “he probably has his reasons,” he said, with a shrewd smile that left carew wondering how much he knew and how far his own steps were dogged by the secret police whose activities extended over a wider district than was generally known. but he let the comment pass unanswered. the general was his very good friend, but with sanois, friendship went by the board where the needs of the country were concerned and even his most trusted agents were subjected to an espionage that was all part of an elaborate and well-organized system. he stuck at nothing to obtain information he wanted and maintained that any means justified a desired end. that he was intrigued by carew’s visit to the casbar today was obvious but he was restricted from openly voicing his curiosity by a compact that had been agreed between them years ago. though he knew, and had good cause to know that carew was whole-heartedly attached to the land of his adoption, he knew also that the englishman was governed by scruples that debarred him from certain lines of action. tonight carew felt convinced that the general was on the track of something other than the information he had been promised and, for his part, he was equally determined to disclose nothing but the matter in hand. though his host of the afternoon might have been guilty of certain indiscretions that had put him out of favour with the government his own visit to the casbar had been a purely personal one—and it could rest at that.

the military club was full when they arrived and it was some time before the two men could find a quiet corner in which to continue the conversation they had begun in the foyer of the opera house.

ordering coffee the general produced the map that seemed to live permanently in the inside pocket of his tunic and spread it out on the table between them. for an hour or more they talked uninterruptedly, and when at last general sanois pushed back his chair with a little grunt of satisfaction, the club had emptied of all but a small number of inveterate card players whose voices echoed fitfully from an adjoining room.

“it is understood, then, that you will act for us,” he said, refolding the map carefully into its creases, “if it becomes necessary.”

“if it becomes necessary—yes,” said carew, reaching for his cloak, “but i would prefer that you arranged this affair without my assistance. i have a scheme of my own on hand, and i am anxious to get back to my work.”

“you can do your work and ours at the same time.”

but carew shook his head. “not conscientiously,” he said as he rose to go, “and besides, you want me to go south. i want to go west.”

the general glanced up with sudden interest from the notes he was hastily scrawling in a bulky pocket-book. “the city of stones?” he suggested, with the suspicion of a chuckle in his voice.

“yes, the city of stones,” the other admitted slowly, “but how did you know?”

the general laughed. “i didn’t know. i guessed. it is a sufficiently impossible undertaking that would naturally appeal to you. i have been wondering when you would attempt it.”

carew made a gesture of dissent. “i don’t think it impossible.”

“no, you wouldn’t,” returned sanois dryly, “but it is impossible for all that. many people have attempted to penetrate into that very intriguing and mysterious city—it has been told me that the charming inhabitants use their bones to form a unique and picturesque embellishment to their battlements.”

carew swung his heavy cloak over his shoulders. “they are welcome to my bones,” he laughed, “the probable alternative being jackals.”

“and your men—and the little saba?” drawled sanois, drawing patterns with his pencil on the marble-topped table.

carew eyed him with a faint smile. sanois’ solicitude was touching but not convincing.

“how much for my men and saba—and how much for your own schemes, general?” he retorted. the general grinned frankly, as he hoisted himself on to his feet. “touché!” he said with a little bow, “but my schemes are less mad than yours, my friend. in the meantime we can count on you?”

“only if it becomes absolutely necessary,” carew replied again quickly. and unwilling to risk a total refusal by premature argument sanois reserved his inducements for a future time. “we can talk of it again,” he said pleasantly, and shook hands with even more than his usual cordiality. to carew the cool night air was a welcome relief after the heated atmosphere of the club. the fresh wind blowing against his face seemed to clear his brain and enabled him to think more calmly of the disturbing incidents of the evening. but calm reflection did not elucidate the extraordinary and violent hatred that had come to him. it was as much beyond his power of comprehension as it was beyond his power to ignore it. it seemed burnt into him. and the girl—he swore at himself angrily. he had thought enough about the girl. what had he to do with her or any other woman—he, who had cursed all women. had he no strength of mind, no strength of purpose left? he sneered in bitter self mockery as the carriage stopped before the villa gateway.

utterly weary of himself and the turmoil of his thoughts he walked up to the house wondering how he was going to get through the remaining hours of the night. sleep in his present state of mind seemed out of the question. it was not rest he wanted but hard physical exercise that in bodily fatigue he might forget the mental upheaval that had assailed him during these last three weeks of comparative inactivity. he paused at the foot of the verandah steps, looking up at the star-lit sky, and the drifting scent of orange blossom made him think with sudden regret of the camp he had left amongst the hills near blidah. what a night for a ride! if he started now he could be there by dawn. for a few minutes he played with the idea and then reluctantly put it from him. despite his whole inclination something seemed to be dragging him back, something that made it impossible for him to leave algiers.

with a heavy sigh he went slowly into the house.