The other nodded.
"Yes," he said quietly. "You can stay. And as far as I know, the course is clear." His voice halted and stumbled queerly. "I ran straight, too, but I was fouled."
And with a grip of Aylmer's hand he went out, to lay the balm of hope against the unhealed wound fate had dealt him, nine long years before.
As twenty-four hours later Aylmer climbed the steps from the water's edge to the pierhead of Tangier, a red fez was doffed from a close-cropped skull and out of a little crowd of hotel touts a Moor saluted with a welcoming smile.
"A pleasant surprise, Sidi," he remarked affably. "There is no hunt abroad to-day."
Aylmer shook his head gravely.
"Not in thy meaning, Daoud," he answered. He moved closer to him. "A Spanish boat—the Miramar came in at dawn?" he questioned.
The Moor hesitated and then turned to shout to a companion. The man answered with a laconic affirmative.
Daoud nodded.