He sighed and looked wistfully to the blue sea.
Hamilton beckoned a Houssa corporal who was crossing the garden of the Residency.
"Ho, Mustaf," he said, in his queer coast Arabic, "where shall I look for my lord Tibbetti?"
The corporal turned and pointed to the woods which begin at the back of the Residency and carry without a break for three hundred miles.
"Lord, he went there carrying many strange things—also there went with him Ali Abid, his servant."
Hamilton reached through an open window of the bungalow and fished out his helmet with his walking-stick.
"We'll find Bones," he said grimly; "he's been gone three hours and he's had time to re-plan Verdun."
It took some time to discover the working party, but when it was found the trouble was well repaid.
Bones was stretched on a canvas chair under the shade of a big Isisi palm. His helmet was tipped forward so that the brim rested on the bridge of his nose, his thin red arms were folded on his breast, and their gentle rise and fall testified to his shame. Two pegs had been driven in, and between them a string sagged half-heartedly.
Curled up under a near-by bush was, presumably, Ali Abid—presumably, because all that was visible was a very broad stretch of brown satin skin which showed between the waistline of a pair of white cotton trousers and a duck jacket.