“It’s rather odd, Dick, that this sergeant should have escaped under the circumstances. Why wasn’t he shot down too? His luck must have been remarkably good, or his legs remarkably swift.”
“Can’t say; but fellows do have luck at times. I’ve met with some myself lately. Also, men don’t live for months in a waterless desert.”
“He might have been rescued, by these women for instance. The man Abdullah didn’t say so, but someone else did say that the sheik Abraham, or whatever his name was, and his people were killed, for they were seen hanging upon trees. Now who hanged them there? Rupert and his people could not have done so if they themselves were already dead. Besides, it was not in his line.”
“Can’t say,” answered Dick again, “but I am sure he is gone. Ain’t you?”
“No, not sure, Dick, though I think he must be. And yet sometimes I feel as if he were near me—I feel it now, and the sensation isn’t altogether pleasant.”
“Bosh!” said Dick.
“Yes, I think it’s bosh too, so let us talk of something else.”
Dick threw the end of his cigarette into the fire, and watched it thoughtfully while it burnt away.
“You think that’s half a cigarette, don’t you, Edith?” he said, pointing to it.
“It doesn’t look much like anything else,” she answered; “but of course changing into smoke and ashes.”