“Effendi,” he whispered, and held it out upon trembling fingers, “it is her necklet! I found it yonder,”—pointing eastward. “Sallee ’a-nebee! it is her necklet!”
Graham turned, gave one wild glance at the thing, and grasped the man by the throat, glaring madly upon him.
“You dog!” he shouted. “You were in the conspiracy! It was you who sent the false messages!”
A moment he held him so, then dropped his hands. Mohammed fell back, choking; but no malice was in the velvet eyes. The Eastern understands and respects a great passion.
“Effendi,” he gasped—“I am your faithful servant, and—I cannot write! Wa-llah! and by His mercy, this will save her if anything can!”
He turned and ran fleetly out, Graham staring after him.
It may seem singular that John Graham remained thus inert—inactive. But upon further consideration his attitude becomes explainable. He knew the futility of a blind search, and dreaded being absent if any definite clue should reach the hotel. Meanwhile, he felt that madness was not far off.
“They say that they have struck out across the Arabian Desert, Mr. Graham—probably in the direction of the old caravan route.”
Graham did not turn; did not know nor care who spoke.