“Blessed is he that expecteth nothing, Maxell,” said Cartwright sententiously, “for he shall not be disappointed. I don’t suppose that the proprietor, whoever he is, cares a snap of his fingers about the matter—it is his infernal son who will fire the adorable Jose.”
That afternoon the two men had an interview on the outskirts of the town with a very plainly dressed Moor, who came to them so cautiously that the observers might have been pardoned if they thought he was a criminal. In the eyes of the divine rulers of Morocco he was something more than a criminal, because he was an emissary of El Mograb, the Pretender. There was a price upon the messenger’s head, and his caution was, therefore, commendable. He brought a letter from El Mograb to Cartwright, and it was a message of cheer.
Maxell and his friend had gone out early in the afternoon and had waited two hours under a scorching sun for the courier to arrive. For a man of law, the fact that he was coquetting with the Sultan’s enemy did not distress Maxell, who knew the history of the country too well to worry very much about Sultan or Pretender. The Sultan’s reign, marked with the turbulence of people and the self-indulgence of monarch, was already doomed. His uncle, El Mograb, a born leader of men and captain of seven thousand well-armed soldiers, was but waiting the psychological moment to strike; and Adbul, with his motor-cars and brass bedstead, his geegaws and his frippery, would disappear into the limbo which is especially reserved for extravagant and unstable rulers.
The news from El Mograb was good. It reconfirmed the concession which one of his shereefs had made on his behalf, and sent a message in flowery Arabic—a message of thanks to the man who had supplied him with the very necessary rifles.
“That was news to me,” said Cartwright as they rode back to the town. “I didn’t know you were gun-running, Maxell, or that you were so solid with El Mograb.”
“I like El Mograb,” said Maxell. “He’s one of the many Moors who have impressed me. You mustn’t forget that I have been visiting Morocco since I was a boy and most of the chiefs are known to me personally. I knew El Mograb’s brother, who was killed at Tetuan, and when he was a favourite in court circles he entertained me at Fez.”
“What is his word worth?” asked Cartwright carelessly.
“It is worth all the contracts that ever went to Somerset House for stamping,” said the other with emphasis. “I think you can go ahead with your scheme.”
Cartwright nodded.