"Intuition, I suppose," the lawyer answered gruffly. "When I see a lady travelling alone, except for her maid, coming apparently from nowhere and heading for a destination wholly indefinite, I always regard her with suspicion. What has Britton learned about this woman? He knows her name is Maud Morris. He knows she can madden him with those eyes and lips. That is the extent of his knowledge. Does he know her home, her county, her family, her support? No! I have questioned Britton, not to mention warning him–"
"You have!" exclaimed the curate, "and what did he say?"
"Told me to go to that infernal region I mentioned. He can't listen to sound reason. They never can!"
"Ah, well," sighed Trascott, "I intended dropping a hint, but since you've anticipated me without result–"
"Might as well talk to a log!" Ainsworth cut in. "I shall be glad when the thing has run its course and we get out of here. This Algerian scenery palls on me! If something would only happen to hasten the climax, it might cheer my heart. I believe I shall hire some dogs of Arabs to abduct the fair princess and let Britton play the rescuer somewhere out on the Djujuras."
"It may not be necessary," said Trascott. "He's going to that dance to-night."
"Yes," muttered the lawyer, "he's been dressing and fussing ever since supper. There's the launch now!"
The gasoline craft spluttered and danced over the waves to the pier where Ainsworth and the curate were smoking.
"You lazy duffers," Britton cried, "aren't you going up?"
He stepped out of the launch, a tall, handsome figure in his evening clothes and top-hat. His paletot hung on his left arm, which was now entirely well, and as he faced his friends they both thought how singularly powerful he looked. Broad of shoulder and deep of chest, it seemed as if the frames of the other two men together would have been required to equal his bulk. His straight, finely-cut features and blue eyes held an expression unmistakably aristocratic.