But the hand thrust in between the bars of the window was certainly not the grimy talon of Ismeddin. The slender white fingers released a scrap of paper that fluttered a moment in the moonlight, then, passing out of the beam, settled to the floor where in the darkness Rankin could just distinguish it.
"Truly the future shall be better for thee than the Past," concluded Rankin. "And thy Lord shall be gracious, and thou satisfied."
The jeweled fingers gestured ever so slightly, paused a moment, and disappeared.
Rankin curbed his impatience and contented himself with staring at the scarcely perceptible blotch that was the note from his unknown friend.
Very faintly from the hall came the snore of the sentry.
"My devoutness was wasted," thought Rankin, as he arose to get the note. "Still, a bit of piety is never out of order."
Rankin struck a match. One sufficed, for the note was brief:
Bismillahi! Neferte to Abdemon, greeting! The darvish, Ismeddin, will spring the bars of your cell and release you on the night of the 12th of Nisan. Ride and overtake us at the oasis of al Akra.
The night of the twelfth ... two days of hard riding ... well, that would not be so bad ... so let Ismeddin do the worrying for the next few hours....