Mustapha again nods, and John resumes his cross-questioning with a lawyer's tact.
"Were our friends injured?"
"Not seriously. They fight well. The soldier threatens to kill all, but they do not allow him to do it."
"Brave Blunt; he deserves a Victoria cross. But where were you, Mustapha?"
The Arab hangs his face; he looks sheepish.
"I come up just when all was over. They twenty against one. It would be foolish for me to try and fight. I believe I can do better; so I watch, I follow, I learn much."
John cannot restrain his feelings. He seizes the Arab's dusky hand and shakes it with real Chicago ardor.
"Mustapha, you're a jewel. Go on. Where did you go at the time of the accident?"
"Bismallah! I was after him, the cause of it all—him, who entered into this conspiracy—the driver. Monsieur, he ran like a deer through the dark. I thought to grasp him more than once, but each time he turned and let me hug the air. But success at last."
"You got him?"