The figure that stood in waiting was a tall, powerful Arab, with dark, piercing eyes that were none too pleasant to look at. He towered several inches above Mr. Holton, who was himself nearly six feet. Around the man’s shoulders and reaching nearly to the floor was a white gown, and on his head was the conventional hlafa.
For several moments he stood looking at the occupants of the room, as though forming a rapid opinion of the situation. Then he again turned to Mr. Holton and muttered something in the native tongue.
That Bob’s father understood was evidenced by the look of surprise that came on his face. A moment later he turned to his friends.
“He says Fekmah is wanted by a friend,” Mr. Holton said. “Won’t say any more. I don’t know what to make of it.”
“A friend?” Fekmah gasped. “Why, I know no person here. What could it mean?”
Again the stranger said something in Arabic and motioned for his objective to come out.
For a moment Fekmah was thoughtful. Then he decided to investigate.
“I will be back in short minutes,” he said and walked toward the door.
“Wait a minute,” called Dr. Kirshner. “I’m going with you.”
“And I, too,” cried Bob, getting up from his chair.