LITMIR.BIZ

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one who is the right hand of our lord the sherif!”

      Again the two men were alone. The old governor turned to Shaw with a quiet gesture.

      “You have eaten my salt. I cannot protect you against Ripperda. What wish you to do?”

      Dr. Shaw had gathered his wits by this time, and his brain was working shrewdly.

      “My friend Spence was not mentioned in that message? Then let us hope that he is alive. I shall remain here. Ripperda will not harm us, for I have a nominal errand to the sherif—regardless of his name! And I must await news of my friend, also. We shall remain here.”

      The Moor nodded. His eyes were narrowed in calculation, anxiety sat beneath the lids.

      “May Allah further your undertakings! I have my own head to look after.”

      Dr. Shaw took the hint, rose, and departed to tell Mistress Betty his news.

      In another portion of this town was a house, outwardly inconspicuous, inwardly a mass of sumptuous furnishings. Many slaves were here, white and black; the harem was large.

      In a small room sat the master of this house, upon a thick rug before a writing table such as scribes use. A tiny shaded lamp burned before him; his face was invisible, only his sinewy arms showing in the circle of light. He clapped his hands, and a slave entered.

      “When a man comes showing the signet of the sherif, bring him to me at once.”

      Alone again, the man went on writing. As his right arm moved in the light, one could see a design upon the skin—the figure of a dolphin, tattooed there. This man was Gholam Mahmoud.

      Suddenly, almost without a sound, the door opened. A man clad in a dark burnoose came into the room; he threw back the hood and disclosed the flaming beard of Barbarroja. A weary oath broke from him as he sank down on the rug.

      “Diantre! Get me some wine. I had to shout for half an hour before they would open the city gates—even the signet of the sherif barely satisfied the dogs. Allah upon them! I rode my horse to death and walked the last two miles of the way here.”

      A slave brought wine. Barbarroja twice drained a goblet, then sighed contentedly.

      “You should have stayed with me.” He grinned at his host. “You lost money, caballero! That is what comes of running after women. As it is, the reward is mine.”

      “Reward!” Gholam Mahmoud started. “Then—Mulai Ali—”

      “Is dead.”

      Barbarroja twirled his mustache grandly.

      “I do not say it was well done, nor am I proud of the matter, however, Allah knows I need the money! His Spahis fought off my men, and while they fought, I gained place in the rear—and put a bullet in his back.”

      “Where is his head, then?” sneered the other.

      “Bah! The event will prove my words. Any news of the man Spence?”

      “None. He is lost. The others readied here safely. Why are you interested in him?”

      “Because,” said Barbarroja coolly, “I have just learned that Spence carries the leather box behind his saddle. That makes you jump, eh? Well, it is the truth. Ripperda’s casket!”

      Gholam Mahmoud snapped out an oath. Then: “Have you any scheme, any way to find him?”

      Barbarroja chuckled.

      “Spence cannot go far alone, and dare not go back to Tlemcen; so he must come west. In that event, he will be picked up somewhere in this district. We have only to wait until he is brought to the governor. When he comes we take the casket—and you negotiate its sale to your master Ripperda. You comprehend? It is simple.”

      Gholam Mahmoud smiled his twisted smile.

      “And suppose Pasha Ripperda comes here?”

      “Let him come!” Barbarroja shrugged, but his eye was startled. “Do you expect him?”

      “Perhaps tonight; certainly tomorrow.”

      “Dios! Very well.”

      The Spaniard made a grandiloquent gesture.

      “I am a generous man. I shall allow you to share the credit of killing Mulai Ali; tell the pasha we did it together. The sherif’s reward goes to me, however. This will rehabilitate your credit with Ripperda, who will then gladly pay a big sum for the casket. You understand?”

      Gholam Mahmoud regarded him sneeringly for a moment. “I understand that in all this there is no mention of the woman whom I desire. If we are to work together, let the conditions be fulfilled—or I shall obtain the woman for myself! If you want the money, turn over the woman to me, and do it quickly. She is here now.”

      Barbarroja pawed at his great beard, and considered this demand.

      “Agreed,” he said, and yawned. “You shall have her tomorrow. Give me a place to sleep, caballero, and Allah will bring all things to pass!”

      Gholam Mahmoud himself conducted his guest to a room on the upper floor.

      Once alone, Barbarroja did not sleep, though he was worn and haggard. Instead he sat for a while staring into the lantern, and plucking at his huge beard. He was sore put to it.

      “They will all be warned against me now, since that old goat of a governor knows me all too well,” he reflected. “And the governor will avenge the death of Mulai Ali on me, if he catches me. How, then, shall I get the woman for yonder lecherous viper? Get her I must!

      “If that devil of a Spence returns—ha! Old Shaw is the one to work upon, and I owe him a turn for the sorry trick he played me at the Cisterns. Shaw is the one—and it must be done speedily, before Ripperda comes, before that devil Spence turns up! Tomorrow, early.”

      He sat for a while longer, then blew out the lantern. Presently his chuckles died away into a droning snore.

      CHAPTER IX

      “Sword is an oath, and oaths must have their course.”

      An hour after sunrise, Dr. Shaw hastily sought the presence of the governor. “Sleep is a trusty adviser,” he said. “I have changed my mind overnight, and have decided to leave here at once, before Ripperda shall arrive.”

      “God knoweth all things.”

      The old Moor blinked. “Consider me at your command. What wish you?”

      “Nothing,” said Shaw. “I will take the two Spahis who brought me here and go on to Fez. I have obtained a guide. Give me a spare horse, food, and water-skins.”

      The old Moor blinked again. He smelled something amiss, since this was not the proper state for an envoy. But he was mightily glad to be rid of Shaw, who might interfere with his own artistic lies to Ripperda, and refused to inquire too close into Shaw’s purpose.

      Nor did he fail to note the inward agitation of Shaw. Putting one thing with another, he shrewdly guessed that this agitation was connected with the missing Spence. All his solicitude was for his own hoary head, however, so he sped his guests right courteously.

      Half an hour later Dr. Shaw and Mistress Betty, attended by the two Spahis, rode toward the western gate of the city. With Shaw, in front, was a rascally one-eyed Moor. He was not only the guide, but the cause of their precipitate departure.

      “You are certain you know the place?” said Dr. Shaw to the Moor.

      “Aye, infidel,” growled the guide. “It is the tomb of Osman, half a mile from the city gates—a deserted spot, since the tomb has fallen into ruin.”

      Shaw drew back beside the girl, who watched him with anxious eyes.

      “I think it is all right,” he said. “At least, it tallies with Spence’s note, and we must trust the rascal. Let me study that note again, mistress.”

      The

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