Tremont took the chart. On the page was simply a round circle, drawn in red ink, with a few Arabian characters and nothing else. Hammet Abou traced the circle with his fingers tipped with henna.
"That was the battle, Monsieur."
"But this is no chart, Hammet Abou."
The other continued, unmoved:
"And all the rest is a desert, like this."
Tremont, over the man's snowy turban, glanced at the others and shrugged. Every one but Julia Redmond thought he was insane. She came up to him where he stood close to Tremont. She said very slowly in French, compelling the man's dark eyes to meet hers:
"You don't wish to tell us, Hammet Abou, anything more. Am I not right? You don't wish us to know the truth."
Now it was the American pitted against the Oriental. The Arab, with deference, touched his forehead before her.
"If I made a true plan," he said coolly, "your excellency could give it to-morrow to the government."
"Just what should be done, Julia," said the Marquise d'Esclignac, in English. "This man should be arrested at once."