"It is not far," he said, in a peculiar, grating voice, "and I am going that way myself. It will take but a few minutes."
Osterberg looked inquiringly at George.
"All right, come along. You lead the way, old man," said Helmar, "and we will follow."
Helmar slipped his hand in his coat pocket to make sure his revolver was there, and, having satisfied himself on the point, hurried along behind the Arab, talking and laughing with his friend, as if he had not the slightest doubt but that everything was fair and above-board.
The limit of the town was reached, and they passed along the sandy road until they came to some gardens. Here they turned off, and soon found themselves in a lonely, obscure sort of disused brick-field surrounded by some tumble-down hovels. At this spot their guide suddenly stopped.
"That is the Mosque, in the distance," he said, and without waiting for reply, hurried off at a pace that belied his age.
"I believe there's some trickery," said Osterberg. "I half wish we hadn't come. What's to be done?"
"That old man has brought us to this spot for a purpose," said Helmar. "Why didn't he leave us at the gardens?" A dark look came into his eyes as he spoke. "Well, we'll give Mr. Mark ten minutes to turn up," he went on. "After that, we'll go."
The two young men stood for a minute or two, kicking their heels about, and, at last, Osterberg got so impatient that he suddenly burst out——
"Come on, don't let us wait here, let us get back to the quay. This is some beastly hoax. The place is as silent as the grave—it gives me the creeps."