But while this juncture is pending in which passion is scheduled to bridle and burst into tongues of flame high as a gas tank in eruption, gave Verbeena a chance.
That is to look around Sheik Amut Ben Butler’s wicked desert diggin’s.
Huh—not that they were so much!
Some Oriental hangings showed up as if they were embroiderd by blacksmiths and colored by accident and chewed by rats.
There were two silver inlaid Moorish stools that would hold you if you were careful. There was a fine-looking, hand-carved chest, big and impressive, that Verbeena peeked into thinking it would reveal perhaps, wondrous stores of Bagdad lace curtains or—heaven alone could tell!—perhaps the corpse of his former victim!
She opened it and then shut it in a hurry. A person may fairly be curious. But not about somebody else’s old shoes.
However, a splendid collection of ivory and silver and ivory and gold and ivory and brass and ivory and tin and ivory and goodness-knew-what cigarette cases, hit Verbeena right in the eye. She selected about sixteen she thought she might like and put them aside in one of her trunks to be called for later.
Should Amut miss ’em.
Although according to her designs, even if he did—even if he did——
Excuse me, for holding off a bit longer. No fault of the author truly.