“Wait a minute,” invited Stringer. “Let me say something, if yo’ please.”
Then he addressed the owner of the yacht.
“Suh,” he said, “I am Stringer, suh, Colonel Weatherby Stringer, at one time of the khedive’s army. I am visiting Egypt again after a lapse of some years, suh, but I assure yo’ I have friends of power and influence in Cairo and Alexandria. In case harm comes to me, suh, the whole affair will be investigated, and yo’ will find yo’self the sufferer if yo’ are in any degree at fault. That’s all I have to say, suh. Now go ahead and use your old searchlight as much as yo’ like.”
This was the little man’s defiance.
“Perhaps you may not know me?” broke in the Englishman. “I am John Coddington, and I have a large business interest in Cairo. If I should happen to get shot to-night, I assure you, don’t you know, that it would be a very serious matter for any one who did the shooting.”
The stranger bowed.
“It happened, gentlemen,” he said, “that I fancied I recognized you both when the searchlight was turned on your boat.”
That seemed to explain why no shooting had been done. The presence of Stringer and Coddington had held the enemy in check.
The enemy? Were these two men the only ones on the yacht? Surely not. Our friends knew there must be more, but where were they?
“Now,” said Dick, “as we are beginning to understand each other, we will inform you further that we are looking for a Spaniard by the name of Miguel Bunol. It is known that he proceeded up the river on the private yacht of a Turkish gentleman. I hardly fancy there is another such yacht on this part of the river.”