He was a bright and intelligent young Egyptian, and for the last hour he had lived in a fever of alarm, thinking Gordon must have fallen into the hands of the police.
"They got wind that you were hiding at the Coptic Patriarch's house," he said, "and were only waiting for the permission of the Agency to raid it at eleven o'clock."
"I left it at ten," said Gordon.
"Thank God for that, sir," said Osman. "The Prophet must have taken a love for you to carry you off so soon. We must start away now, though," he whispered. "It's past twelve, and the village is fast asleep!"
"Is everything ready?" asked Gordon.
"Everything—water, biscuits, dates, durah, rifles——"
"Rifles?"
"Why not, sir? Two good Bedouin flintlocks. Even if we never have occasion to use them they'll help us to divert suspicion."
"Let us be off, then," said Gordon.
"Good," said Osman. "If we can only get away quietly our journey will be as white as milk."