He pressed both his hands to his forehead and his breast as the ladies entered the vestibule. There was a stagnant odor of myrrh and sandalwood in the air. The marble vestibule was cool and dark, the walls hung with high-colored stuffs, the windows drawn to keep out the heat.
The Duc de Tremont and Madame de la Maine came out of the salon together. Tremont nodded to the Arab.
"I hope you are a little less—" and he touched his forehead smiling, "to-day, my friend."
"I am as God made me, Monsieur."
"What have you got to-day?" asked Julia Redmond anxiously, fixing her eager eyes upon Hammet.
It seemed terrible to her that this man should stand there with a vital secret and that they should not all be at his feet. He glanced boldly around at them.
"There are no soldiers here?"
"No, no, you may speak freely."
The man went forward to Tremont and put a paper in his hands, unfolding it like a chart.
"This is what monsieur asked me for—a plan of the battle-field. This is the battle-field, and this is the desert."