“Perhaps Captain Orme does not wish to be bored with it,” I said, whereon he answered at once:
“On the contrary, I should like to hear it very much—that is, if you are willing to confide in me as well as in Higgs.”
I reflected a moment, since, to tell the truth, for sundry reasons, my intention had been to trust no one except the Professor, whom I knew to be as faithful as he is rough. Yet some instinct prompted me to make an exception in favour of this Captain Orme. I liked the man; there was something about those brown eyes of his that appealed to me. Also it struck me as odd that he should happen to be present on this occasion, for I have always held that there is nothing casual or accidental in the world; that even the most trivial circumstances are either ordained, or the result of the workings of some inexorable law whereof the end is known by whatever power may direct our steps, though it be not yet declared.
“Certainly I am willing,” I answered; “your face and your friendship with the Professor are passport enough for me. Only I must ask you to give me your word of honour that without my leave you will repeat nothing of what I am about to tell you.”
“Of course,” he answered, whereon Higgs broke in:
“There, that will do; you don’t want us both to kiss the Book, do you? Who sold you that ring, and where have you been for the last dozen years, and whence do you come now?”
“I have been a prisoner of the Khalifa’s among other things. I had five years of that entertainment of which my back would give some evidence if I were to strip. I think I am about the only man who never embraced Islam whom they allowed to live, and that was because I am a doctor, and, therefore, a useful person. The rest of the time I have spent wandering about the North African deserts looking for my son, Roderick. You remember the boy, or should, for you are his godfather, and I used to send you photographs of him as a little chap.”
“Of course, of course,” said the Professor in a new tone; “I came across a Christmas letter from him the other day. But, my dear Adams, what happened? I never heard.”
“He went up the river to shoot crocodiles against my orders, when he was about twelve years old—not very long after his mother’s death, and some wandering Mahdi tribesmen kidnapped him and sold him as a slave. I have been looking for him ever since, for the poor boy was passed on from tribe to tribe, among which his skill as a musician enabled me to follow him. The Arabs call him the Singer of Egypt, because of his wonderful voice, and it seems that he has learned to play upon their native instruments.”
“And now where is he?” asked Higgs, as one who feared the answer.