“I must go to Suakin.” He knew, thanks to Alf's readings, that Torpenhow was at work with the column that was protecting the construction of the Suakin-Berber line. P. and O. steamers do not touch at that port, and, besides, Madame Binat knew everybody whose help or advice was worth anything. They were not respectable folk, but they could cause things to be accomplished, which is much more important when there is work toward.
“But at Suakin they are always fighting. That desert breeds men always—and always more men. And they are so bold! Why to Suakin?”
“My friend is there.
“Thy friend! Chtt! Thy friend is death, then.”
Madame Binat dropped a fat arm on the table-top, filled Dick's glass anew, and looked at him closely under the stars. There was no need that he should bow his head in assent and say—“No. He is a man, but—if it should arrive... blamest thou?”
“I blame?” she laughed shrilly. “Who am I that I should blame any one—except those who try to cheat me over their consommations. But it is very terrible.”
“I must go to Suakin. Think for me. A great deal has changed within the year, and the men I knew are not here. The Egyptian lighthouse steamer goes down the Canal to Suakin—and the post-boats—But even then——”
“Do not think any longer. I know, and it is for me to think. Thou shalt go—thou shalt go and see thy friend. Be wise. Sit here until the house is a little quiet—I must attend to my guests—and afterwards go to bed. Thou shalt go, in truth, thou shalt go.”
“Tomorrow?”
“As soon as may be.” She was talking as though he were a child.