“Who killed him, Sam?”
“Joe, uncle; and by killing him saved all our lives.” As quickly and in as few words as possible, I related the tragic scene just enacted.
But the relation of Abdul Hashim’s enmity reminded me to ask a question, in turn.
“Where is the Professor, uncle?”
“And where’s the treasure?” demanded Archie, almost in the same breath.
Uncle Naboth frowned and looked glum, and Ned swore a deep oath in sailor fashion.
“The Perfessor, Sam, is a infernal scoundrel!” my uncle answered.
I glanced at the dead Arab. Was his story indeed true, I wondered, and had Van Dorn wronged Abdul Hashim even as the sheik had declared? If so, much might be forgiven the Arab.
“Let us admit the Professor is a scoundrel,” I remarked, “for such a statement does not surprise me. But that does not account for his absence.”
“Yes; it does,” retorted Uncle Naboth; “an’ it ’counts for our runnin’ away and leavin’ you boys in the lurch. Almost it accounts for your all bein’ killed—which you would ’a’ been, lads, if it hadn’t been fer Joe.” Here he glanced affectionately at our hero, who grew red and embarrassed.