“Hell of a lot of good money will do us now. We’ve ten minutes. Think we’ll like Sub-Sahara?”
“It sounds—interesting,” Phil said slowly. “Captain Brady’s certainly hipped on his Land of Light. I wonder what sort the Copts are?”
“Tough hombres,” Tony grunted. There was a brief silence. The waiter appeared, refilled glasses, and departed. Then—
“Merlin!” a soft voice whispered.
Tony’s fingers tightened around his glass. Phil sat perfectly motionless. Jimmy’s head jerked slightly; then he was immobile.
Tony looked around, and the others followed his lead.
Standing beside them was a small, round-faced man, his beady dark eyes glinting beneath a sun-helmet, his tropical whites looking freshly laundered. His gaze swiveled sharply from one to another of the trio. A shadow of disappointment flickered over his features and was gone.
Tony said, “Who the devil are you?”
The stranger flashed white teeth. “The private secretary of a certain Rajah. One of you has seen me before. I do not know which one. However—”
“He’s crazy,” Phil grunted. “Batty as a bedbug. Drink up, boys.”