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Von Kerber was near her, and the few Arabs with them were scattered among the rocks in positions whence they could return the incessant fusillade poured on them from the hills. Their camels were huddled in a hollow between the two westerly mounds, and, so far as Royson could judge, the little party had not yet sustained many casualties. But the tactics of their assailants were quite obvious.
"Now, because I asked you to wait, you shall have first choice," she said, "Lead on, Mr. Royson. Let us see our dens." But Baron von Kerber came running along the deck, all smiles and welcoming words, and it was evident that some reason other than physical unfitness had kept him out of sight until the yacht's voyage was actually commenced.
Owing to the Babel of tongues in the street, neither Irene nor Captain Stump knew how terribly the mere sight of the staring Italian had affected Mrs. Haxton. It came to Royson with a flash of inspiration that this man must be Alfieri, that the woman had recognized him, and that she feared him with a mortal dread. He sprang upright and went to her.
"Gone out for a drive!" repeated Royson, quite taken aback by this rather bewildering explanation. "Am I to understand that my friends are kept here " "You are to understand nothing but what I have told you, and you will remember that I have contented myself with advising you to return to your yacht."
If they were true, the Italian Foreign Office was justified in its action: if false, there would be such a hubbub that the resultant apologies would certainly be accompanied by the offer of every assistance to the objects of the expedition. When they drew near the hotel, Royson saw Irene watching the main street anxiously from the balcony.
Fenshawe hurried to grasp Dick's hand. "I will not endeavor to thank you now," he said brokenly. "My gratitude is too deep for words, but believe me, Mr. Royson if I had lost my little girl it would have killed me." The hotel manager came to Dick's relief. With a face all wrinkled in a satisfied grin, he informed them that "dinner was now served."
"Am I right in supposin' that you know where this stuff is hid, Mr. von Kerber?" he asked, his small eyes twinkling under the strain of continuous thought. "Yes." "Are you positive?" "Yes." "Does anybody else know?" Royson felt that the Baron did not expect this question, but the answer came promptly: "Mr. Fenshawe knows, and the two ladies who accompany him have a species of general knowledge."
Royson and he chatted together while the goods were being exchanged, and, in the end, the polite Frenchman invited messieurs les officiers to dine with him, and visit the Palais de Glace, where some daring young lady was announced to do things in a motor-car, which, in England, are only attempted by motor omnibuses.
He is not a casual friend, met in Cairo, as she pretends, but a man whom she has known for years. And, last in a list of guessings which I know to be true, they both fear some discovery, or interruption, or danger not revealed to us, which may prevent them from obtaining the wealth they hope to gain. They are desperately poor, Mr. Royson.
He was reading the name of the yacht when she said: "Come here, boy. Have you a telegram for me?" She used excellent French, and the messenger handed her the small blue envelope he was carrying. The lady dropped her eyeglasses, and scanned the address quickly before she read it aloud. "Richard Royson, British Yacht Aphrodite, Marseilles," she announced, after a moment's pause.
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