"Stretton!" he cried out in a burst of joy.
The man in the courtyard looked up. Warrisden would never have known him but for his voice. A ragged beard stubbled his cheeks and chin; he was disfigured with dirt and bruises; he was lean with hunger; his face was drawn and hollow from lack of sleep. But there was something more, a wider difference between this ragged Stretton in the courtyard and the Stretton Warrisden had known than mere looks explained. The man who had looked up when he heard his voice loudly and suddenly pronounced had been startled--nay, more than startled. He had raised an arm as though to ward off a blow. He had shrunk back. He had been afraid. Even now, when he looked at Warrisden, and knew that he was here in a house of safety, he stood drawing deep breaths, and trembling like one who has received a shock. His appearance told Warrisden much of the dangers of the journey from Ain-Sefra through the hills to Fez.
"Yes," said Tony, "I am here. Am I in time?"
"Just in time," cried Warrisden. "Oh, but I thought you never would come!"
He ran down the steps into the courtyard.
"Balak!" cried Stretton, with a laugh. "Wait till I have had a bath, and got these clothes burnt."
In such guise, Tony Stretton came to Fez. He had gone straight to the vice-consulate, and thence had been directed to Warrisden's house. When, an hour later, he came up on to the gallery and sat down to dinner, he was wearing the clothes of a European, and the look of fear had gone from his face, the servility from his manner. But Warrisden could not forget either the one or the other. Tony Stretton had come through the mountains--yes. But the way had not been smooth.
CHAPTER XXVIII
[HOMEWARDS]
The two men smoked together upon the roof-top afterwards.