“For a tawdry gem!” he muttered.
A slight sound made him leap up, revolver drawn.
Had it been the ever-blowing gale, stirring something? Or some fresh menace, some creeping creature, some vindictive priest, who had made that tiny sound of a scraping shoe?
“Who’s there? Speak or I’ll fire!”
He knew no direction to shoot in. But the light might disclose something. He raised the weapon.
“Mr. Clark, don’t——”
“Roger!”
“In person, and not a ghost.”
In a heavy sheeps-wool coat, shaggy and rough, the figure came to his side. His grip of the young hand was sincerely strong.
“Quick!” Roger gasped, “give me the Eye of Om—I can exchange it and get back and we can go before they discover me.”