ifteen minutes passed by, while the slight figure of the inventor puttered about the interior of the sphere, brightly lit by a detachable searchlight, inspecting all mechanisms in preparation for their descent. Sue stood by the door watching him, now and then turning to scan the desert for the returning Phil.
It was then, startlingly sudden, that there cracked through the velvet night the faint, distant sound of a gun. And it came from the direction of the water-hole.
Sue's face went white, and she trembled. Without a word her father stepped out of the borer and looked at her.
"That was a gun!" he said. "Phil didn't have one with him, did he?"
"No," Sue whispered. "And—why, there's nobody within miles of here!"
The two looked at each other with alarm and wonder. Then, from one of the broken patches of scrub that ringed the space in which the borer stood, came a mocking voice.
"Ah, you're mistaken, Sue," it affirmed. "But that was a gun."
David Guinness jerked around, as did his daughter. The man who had spoken stood only ten yards away, clearly outlined in the bright moonlight—a tall, well-built man, standing quite at ease, surveying them pleasantly. His smile did not change when old Guinness cried:
"Quade! James Quade!"