Again Mark dealt out coins.
The old peasant entered the room.
"The baron is furious," he reported grimly. "They are searching every hut and hovel—"
The doctor shifted his feet nervously.
"Since there is nothing more I can do—" he murmured.
Mark seemed to shake off the strange, dream-like lassitude that gripped him.
"Of course, gentlemen. All of you have done your best. But there isn't any need of your staying longer, imperiling your lives by the chances of Baron Morriere's vengeance. Please leave—and my thanks go with you."
Out they marched, a weird procession: painter, doctor, peasant. Only the old man hesitated at the door.
"God be with you, friend!" he whispered, and pulled the heavy portal shut behind him.
Like a man in a trance, Mark watched them go. His feet were spread apart; fists clenched. Nor did the Sphinx at Giza look out upon the world with a face more grey or stony or implacable than was his.