"He's given her up—he's got a saving explanation to thrust in the world's face! Oh, blessed Allah, Veiler of all that should be veiled! The man's through. He's had enough. He isn't going to try to—"
Across the bright oblong of the entrance a shadow appeared.
"Ryder—I say, Ryder," said a hurried voice—Thatcher's voice—and Thatcher came hastily forward in perturbed urgency.
"There's a lot of men outside—police and natives and what not. With warrants. They're searching the place. And they want to see you.... Hang it all, Ryder," said Thatcher explosively but apologetically, "they say you've made off with some sheik's daughter."
He paused, shocked at the monstrosity of the accusation. He was a delicate-minded man—outside of his knowledge of antiquities—and he evidently expected his young associate to fall upon him and slay him for the slander.
"A sheik's daughter—?" said Ryder in a mildly wondering voice. From his emphasis one might have inferred he was saying, "How odd! I don't remember any sheik's daughter—"
A queer uncomfortable flush spread fanways from Thatcher's thin temples and rayed across his high cheekbones. He did not look at either of the men as he murmured, "It's most peculiar, but that Arab horse—the sheik claims the horse is his, too. He says you rode off on it, with his daughter."
"That's all right," said Ryder absently. "I don't want the horse.... But you say the sheik's there? What does he look like? Thin—with blond mustaches?"
"Oh, no, no, not at all. He is quite heavy and bearded—one-eyed, if I recollect. But there is a man with a blond mustache who appears to do the directing—"
"And you mean they are searching?" said Ryder abruptly. "You've let them in—?"