"I am the robber who goes abroad, prowling to find wicked rich men who deserve robbing," he said. "I return shortly, little lord. Have no fear."
Little John nodded gravely and took his father's hand. The two paced solemnly down into the cellar. The hearthstone was replaced, the cinders set smoking upon it again. With a sigh Yakoob took up another deplorable pair of trousers and bit off a length of thread. Muhammed passed out into the street.
Five minutes later he stood on the quayside, watching the motor launch which slid out of the shadow cast on the still waters by The Morning Star.
Three figures sat upon the cushions at the stern, and Muhammed, as he watched them from under the hood of his haik, examined one of them with startled intensity. Miss Van Arlen he recognized. Aylmer, whose face was partially disguised by bandages, he debated over for a moment. But this third? This gray-clad elder? This was not the owner of The Morning Star. It was—whom?
Surprise as much as relief erased the wrinkles from the watcher's face as the unknown stepped ashore, turned to assist his companion, and disclosed the features of the Moor's former employer, Mr. Miller.
Muhammed emphasized his amazement with an oath. "One God!" he swore, and for a moment hesitated. Then, as the gray-clad man strolled past him, talking, the Moor pushed back the haik which shadowed his face and met the other's glance squarely.
Mr. Miller made no sign.
Muhammed dropped back into the shadow of the quayside booths, and sauntered carelessly up the citadel ramp. The three preceded him. At the top of the ramp a causeway leads to the drawbridge which spans the fort ditch. Mr. Miller had apparently eyes for nothing but his fair companion. He failed to notice, at any rate, the dilapidated state of the iron rails which fence the bridge. The dust cloak he was carrying caught in a jagged piece of iron and was most unfortunately torn. A sudden appreciative gleam burned in Muhammed's eyes as he noted the incident. The haik hood concealed a smile.
He could not hear, but he could see the expressive pantomime which was accompanying Mr. Miller's apologies. He motioned his companions forward towards the bridge and the dark entrance through the casemate into the citadel. As for himself, his finger explained, he would return to the town and get the damage repaired. After a minute's discussion, matters followed the course indicated. Aylmer and Miss Van Arlen passed on—to seek the government offices, as Muhammed told himself, to interview the head, no doubt, of the military police.
The Moor slid forward deferentially as the gray figure turned.