“I have no doubt that I can discover where she is,” he said, “if she is still in Casablanca.”
“Where else can she be unless it’s in the sea!” cried Gerard. “But remember you have got to be quick. She had only the seven francs. God knows what has become of her!”
He stood gazing at the lamp as if he could read her whereabouts in that white flame as the gifted might do in a crystal; with his cap tilted on the back of his head and a look of grave trouble upon his face.
“I’ll find her, never fear,” said Paul Ravenel, touching his friend upon the arm. “And what I can do to keep her from harm that I will do.”
Gerard responded to the friendliness and the assurance in Paul’s voice. He shook off his dejection.
“Thank you, mon vieux,” he said and held out his hand. “Well, we shall meet in Fez.”
He had reached the door before he remembered the primary reason for his visit.
“By the way, I have a letter about you from some one in England, a Colonel Vanderfelt. Yes, he is anxious for news of you. He wrote to me because in your letters to him you had more than once spoken of me as your friend.”
A shadow darkened Paul’s face as he listened, and a look of pain came into his eyes. He took the letter from Gerard.
“Have you answered it, Gerard?”