XLVI

It was after one o'clock when Stephen and Nevill bade each other good

night, after a stroll out of the town into the desert. They had built up

plans and torn them down again, and no satisfactory decision had been

reached, for both feared that, if they attempted to threaten the

marabout with their knowledge of his past, he would defy them to do

their worst. Without Saidee and Victoria, they could bring forward no

definite and visible proof that the great marabout, Sidi El Hadj

Mohammed Abd el Kadr, and the disgraced Captain Cassim ben Halim were

one. And the supreme difficulty was to produce Saidee and Victoria as

witnesses. It was not even certain, if the marabout were threatened and

thought himself in danger, that he might not cause the sisters to

disappear. That thought prevented the two men from coming easily to any

decision. Sabine had not told them that he knew Saidee, or that he had

actually heard of the girl's arrival in the Zaouïa. He longed to tell

and join with them in their quest; but it would have seemed a disloyalty

to the woman he loved. It needed a still greater incentive to make him

speak out; while as for the Englishmen, though they would gladly have

taken his advice, they hesitated to give away the secret of Saidee Ray's

husband to a representative of Ben Halim's stern judge, France.

Various plans for action had been discussed, yet Stephen and Nevill both

felt that all were subject to modification. Each had the hope that the

silent hours would bring inspiration, and so they parted at last. But

Stephen had not been in his room ten minutes when there came a gentle

tap at his door. He thought that it must be Nevill, returning to

announce the birth of a new idea; but in the dark corridor stood a

shadowy Arab, he who did most of the work in the hotel outside the

kitchen.

"A person has come with a letter for Monsieur," the man mumbled in bad

French, his voice so sleepy as to be almost inarticulate. "He would not

give it to me, the foolish one. He insists on putting it into the hand

of Monsieur. No doubt it is a pourboire he wants. He has followed me to

the head of the stairs, and he has no French."

"Where does he come from?" asked Stephen.

"He will not say. But he is a Negro whom I have never seen in the city."

"Call him," Stephen said. And in a moment a thin young Negro, dusted all

over with sand, came into the square of light made by the open door. His

legs were bare, and over his body he appeared to have no other garment

but a ragged, striped gandourah. In a purple-black hand he held a folded

piece of paper, and Stephen's heart jumped at sight of his own name

written in a clear handwriting. It was not unlike Victoria's but it was

not hers.

"The man says he cannot take a letter back," explained the Arab servant.

"But if Monsieur will choose a word to answer, he will repeat it over

and over until he has it by heart. Then he will pass it on in the same

way."

Stephen was reading his letter and scarcely heard. It was Victoria's

sister who wrote. She signed herself at the bottom of the bit of

paper--a leaf torn from a copy book--"Saidee Ray," as though she had

never been married. She had evidently written in great haste, but the

thing she proposed was clearly set forth, as if in desperation. Victoria

did not approve, she said, and hoped some other plan might be found; but

in Saidee's opinion there was no other plan which offered any real

chance of success. In their situation, they could not afford to stick at

trifles, and neither could Mr. Knight, if he wished to save Victoria

from being married against her will to an Arab. There was no time to

lose if anything were to be done; and if Mr. Knight were willing to take

the way suggested, would he say the word "yes," very distinctly, to the

messenger, as it would not be safe to try and smuggle a letter into the

Zaouïa.

It was a strange, even a detestable plot, which Saidee suggested; yet

when Stephen had turned it over in his mind for a moment he said the

word "yes" with the utmost distinctness. The sand-covered Negro imitated

him several times, and having achieved success, was given more money

than he had ever seen in his life. He would not tell the Arab, who

escorted him downstairs again, whence he had come, but it was a long

distance and he had walked. He must return on foot, and if he were to be

back by early morning, he ought to get off at once. Stephen made no

effort to keep him, though he would have liked Saidee's messenger to be

seen by Caird.

Nevill had not begun to undress, when Stephen knocked at his door. He

was about to begin one of his occasional letters to Josette, with his

writing materials arranged abjectly round one tallow candle, on a

washhand stand.

"That beast of a Cassim! He's going to try and marry the poor child off

to his friend Maïeddine!" Nevill growled, reading the letter. "Stick at

trifles indeed! I should think not. This is Providential--just when we

couldn't quite make up our minds what to do next."

"You're not complimentary to Providence," said Stephen. "Seems to me a

horrid sort of thing to do, though I'm not prepared to say I won't do

it. _She_ doesn't approve, her sister says, you see----"

"Who knows the man better, his wife or the girl?"

"That goes without saying. Well, I'm swallowing my scruples as fast as I

can get them down, though they're a lump in my throat. However, we

wouldn't hurt the little chap, and if the father adores him, as she

says, we'd have Ben Halim pretty well under our thumbs, to squeeze him

as we chose. Knowing his secret as we do, he wouldn't dare apply to the

French for help, for fear we'd give him away. We must make it clear that

we well know who he is, and that if he squeals, the fat's in the fire!"

"That's the right spirit. We'll make him shake in his boots for fear we

give not only the secret, but the boy, over to the tender mercies of the

authorities. For it's perfectly true that if the Government knew what a

trick had been played on them, they'd oust the false marabout in favour

of the rightful man, whoever he may be, clap the usurper into prison,

and make the child a kind of--er--ward in chancery, or whatever the

equivalent is in France. Oh, I can tell you, my boy, this idea is the

inspiration of a genius! The man will see we're making no idle threat,

that we can't carry out. He'll have to hand over the ladies, or he'll

spend some of his best years in prison, and never see his beloved boy

again."

"First we've got to catch our hare. But there Sabine could help us, if

we called him in."

"Yes. And we couldn't do better than have him with us, I think, Legs,

now we've come to this turn in the road."

"I agree so far. Still, let's keep Ben Halim's secret to ourselves. We

must have it to play with. I believe Sabine's a man to trust; but he's a

French officer; and a plot of that sort he might feel it his duty to

make known."

"All right. We'll keep back that part of the business. It isn't

necessary to give it away. But otherwise Sabine's the man for us. He's a

romantic sort of chap, not unlike me in that; it's what appealed to me

in him the minute we began to draw each other out. He'll snap at an

adventure to help a pretty girl even though he's never seen her; and he

knows the marabout's boy and the guardian-uncle. He was talking to me

about them this afternoon. Let's go and rout him out. I bet he'll have a

plan to propose."

"Rather cheek, to rouse him up in the middle of the night. We might

wait till morning, since I don't see that we can do anything useful

before."

"He only got in from seeing some friend in barracks, about one. He

doesn't look like a sleepy-head. Besides, if I'm not mistaken, I smell

his cigarettes. He's probably lying on his bed, reading a novel."

But Sabine was reading something to him far more interesting than any

novel written by the greatest genius of all ages; a collection of

Saidee's letters, which he invariably read through, from first to last,

every night before even trying to sleep.

The chance to be in the game of rescue was new life to him. He grudged

Saidee's handwriting to another man, even though he felt that, somehow,

she had hoped that he would see it, and that he would work with the

others. He laughed at the idea that the adventure would be more

dangerous for him as a French officer, if anything leaked out, than for

two travelling Englishmen.

"I would give my soul to be in this!" he exclaimed, before he knew what

he was saying, or what meaning might be read into his words. But both

faces spoke surprise. He was abashed, yet eager. The impulse of his

excitement led him on, and he began stammering out the story he had not

meant to tell.

"I can't say the things you ought to know, without the things that no

one ought to know," he explained in his halting English, plunging back

now and then inadvertently into fluent French. "It is wrong not to

confess that all the time I know that young lady is there--in the

Zaouïa. But there is a reason I feel it not right to confess. Now it

will be different because of this letter that has come. You must hear

all and you can judge me."

So the story was poured out: the romance of that wonderful day when,

while he worked at the desert well in the hot sun, a lady went by, with

her servants, to the Moorish baths. How her veil had fallen aside, and

he had seen her face--oh, but the face of a houri, an angel. Yet so

sad--tragedy in the beautiful eyes. In all his life he had not seen such

beauty or felt his heart so stirred. Through an attendant at the baths

he had found out that the lovely lady was the wife of the marabout, a

Roumia, said not to be happy. From that moment he would have sacrificed

his hopes of heaven to set her free. He had written--he had laid his

life at her feet. She had answered. He had written again. Then the

sister had arrived. He had been told in a letter of her coming. At first

he had thought it impossible to confide a secret concerning

another--that other a woman--even to her sister's friends. But now there

was no other way. They must all work together. Some day he hoped that

the dear prisoner would be free to give herself to him as his wife. Till

then, she was sacred, even in his thoughts. Even her sister could find

no fault with his love. And would the new friends shake his hand wishing

him joy in future.

So all three shook hands with great heartiness; and perhaps Sabine would

have become still more expansive had he not been brought up to credit

Englishmen stolid fellows at best with a favourite motto: "Deeds, not

words."

As Sabine told his story, Stephen's brain had been busily weaving. He

did not like the thing they had to do, but if it must be done, the only

hope lay in doing it well and thoroughly. Sabine's acquaintance with the

boy and his guardian would be a great help.

"I've been thinking how we can best carry out this business," he said,

when the pact of friendship had been sealed by clasp of hands. "We can't

afford to have any row or scandal. It must somehow be managed without

noise, for the sake of--the ladies, most of all, and next, for the sake

of Captain Sabine. As a Frenchman and an officer, it would certainly be

a lot worse for him than for us, if we landed him in any mess with the

authorities."

"I care nothing for myself." Sabine broke in, hotly.

"All the more reason for us to keep our heads cool if we can, and look

after you. We must get the boy to go away of his own accord."

"That is more easy to propose than to do," said Sabine, with a shrug of

the shoulders.

"Well, an idea has come into my head. There may be something in it--if

you can help us work it. We couldn't do it without you. Do you know the

child and his uncle so well that it wouldn't seem queer to invite them

to the hotel for a meal--say luncheon to-morrow, or rather to-day--for

it's morning now?"

"Yes, I could do that. And they would come. It would be an amusement for

them. Life is dull here," Sabine eagerly replied.

"Good. Does the child speak French?"

"A little. He is learning in the school."

"That's lucky, for I don't know a dozen words of Arab, and even my

friend Caird can't be eloquent in it. Wings, do you think you could work

up the boy to a wild desire for a tour in a motor-car?"

"I would bet on myself to do that. I could make him a motor fiend,

between the _hors d'oeuvres_ and fruit."

"Our great stumbling block, then, is the uncle. I suppose he's a sort of

watch-dog, who couldn't be persuaded to leave the boy alone a minute?"

"I am not sure of that," said Sabine. "It is true he is a watch-dog; but

I could throw him a bone I think would tempt him to desert his post--if

he had no suspicion of a trap. What you want, I begin to see, is to get

him out of the way, so that Monsieur Caird could induce the little

Mohammed to go away willingly?"

"Yes."

"_Eh bien!_ It is as good as done. I see the way. Hassan ben Saad, the

respectable uncle, has a secret weakness which I have found out. He has

lost his head for the prettiest and youngest dancer in the quarter of

the Ouled Naïls. She is a great favourite, Nedjma, and she will not

look at him. He is too old and dry. Besides, he has no money except what

the marabout gives him as guardian to the boy at school. Hassan sends

Nedjma such presents as he can afford, and she laughs at them with the

other girls, though she keeps them, of course. To please me, she will

write a letter to Ben Saad, telling him that if he comes to her at once,

without waiting a moment, he may find her heart soft for him. This

letter shall be brought to our table, at the hotel, while Hassan

finishes his _déjeuner_ with us. He will make a thousand apologies and

tell a thousand lies, saying it is a call of business. Probably he will

pretend that it concerns the marabout, of whom he boasts always as his

relative. Then he will go, in a great hurry, leaving the child, because

we will kindly invite him to do so; and he will promise to return soon

for his nephew. But Nedjma will be so sweet that he will not return

soon. He will be a long time away--hours. He will forget the boy, and

everything but his hope that at last Nedjma will love him. Does that

plan of mine fit in with yours, Monsieur?"

"Perfectly," said Knight. "What do you think, Wings?"

"As you do. You're both geniuses. And I'll try to keep my end up by

fascinating the child. He shall be mine, body and soul, by the end of

lunch. When he finds that we're leaving Oued Tolga, instantly, and that

he must be sent ignominiously home, he shall be ready to howl with

grief. Then I'll ask him suddenly, how he'd like to go on a little trip,

just far enough to meet my motor-car, and have a ride in it. He'll say

yes, like a shot, if he's a normal boy. And if the uncle's away, it will

be nobody's business even if they see the marabout's son having a ride

behind me on my horse, as he might with his own father. Trust me to lure

the imp on with us afterward, step by step, in a dream of happiness. I

was always a born lurer--except when I wanted a thing or person for

myself."

"You say, lure him on with 'us'" Stephen cut in. "But it will have to

be you alone. I must stay at this end of the line, and when the time

comes, give the marabout our ultimatum. The delay will be almost

intolerable, but of course the only thing is to lie low until you're so

far on the way to Touggourt with the child, that a rescue scheme would

be no good. Touggourt's a bit on the outskirts of the marabout's zone of

influence, let's hope. Besides, he wouldn't dare attack you there, in

the shadow of the French barracks. It's his business to help keep peace

in the desert, and knowing what we know of his past, I think with the

child out of his reach he'll be pretty well at our mercy."

"When Hassan ben Saad finds the boy gone, he will be very sick," said

Sabine. "But I shall be polite and sympathetic, and will give him good

advice. He is in deadly awe of the marabout, and I will say that, if the

child's father hears what has happened, there will be no

forgiveness--nothing but ruin. Waiting is the game to play, I will

counsel Hassan. I shall remind him that, being Friday, no questions will

be asked at school till Monday, and I shall raise his hopes that little

Mohammed will be back soon after that, if not before. At worst, I will

say, he can pretend the child is shut up in the house with a cough. I

shall assure him that Monsieur Caird is a man of honour and great

riches; that no harm can come to little Mohammed in his care. I will

explain how the boy pleaded to go, and make Hassan happy with the

expectation that in a few days Monsieur Caird is coming back to fetch

his friend; that certainly Mohammed will be with him, safe and sound;

and that, if he would not lose his position, he must say nothing of what

has happened to any one who might tell the marabout."

"Do you think you can persuade him to keep a still tongue in his head

till it suits us to have him speak, or write a letter for me to take?"

asked Stephen.

"I am sure of it. Hassan is a coward, and you have but to look him in

the face to see he has no self-reliance. He must lean on some one else.

He shall lean on me. And Nedjma shall console him, so that time will

pass, and he shall hardly know how it is going. He will speak when we

want him to speak or write, not before."

The three men talked on in Stephen's room till dawn, deciding details

which cropped up for instant settlement. At last it was arranged--taking

the success of their plan for granted--that Stephen should wait a day

and a half after the departure of Nevill's little caravan. By that time,

it should have got half-way to Touggourt; but there was one bordj where

it would come in touch with the telegraph. Stephen would then start for

the Zaouïa, for an interview with the marabout, who, no doubt, was

already wondering why he did not follow up his first attempt by a

second. He would hire or buy in the city a racing camel fitted with a

bassour large enough for two, and this he would take with him to the

Zaouïa, ready to bring away both sisters. No allusion to Saidee would be

made in words. The "ultimatum" would concern Victoria only, as the elder

sister was wife to the marabout, and no outsider could assume to have

jurisdiction over her. But as it was certain that Victoria would not

stir without Saidee, a demand for one was equivalent to a demand for the

other.

This part of the plan was to be subject to modification, in case Stephen

saw Victoria, and she proposed any course of action concerning her

sister. As for Sabine, having helped to make the plot he was to hold

himself ready at Oued Tolga, the city, for Stephen's return from the

Zaouïa. And the rest was on the knees of the gods.