“Yes,” the English engineer replied, “I and my assistant are just off into the desert for three weeks. The train drops us off two hundred miles south, and there we shall remain at work. The track is always requiring repair, and I assure you we find the midday heat is sometimes simply terrible. The only sign of civilisation that we see is when the express passes up to Khartoum at daybreak, and down to Haifa at midnight.”
“Terribly monotonous,” remarked the diplomat, used to the gay society of the capitals.
“Oh, I don’t know,” replied the Englishman, with a rather sad smile. “I gave up London five years ago—I had certain reasons—and I came out here to recommence life and forget. I don’t expect I shall ever go back.”
“Ah! Then London holds some painful memory for you—eh?” remarked Waldron with sympathy.
“Yes,” he answered, with a hard, bitter look upon his face. “But there,” he added quickly, “I suppose I shall get over it—some day.”
“Why, of course you will,” replied the diplomat cheerfully. “We all of us have our private troubles. Some men are not so lucky as to be able to put everything behind them, and go into self-imposed exile.”
“It is best, I assure you,” was the big, bronzed fellow’s reply. Then noticing the signals he shouted into the inner apartment: “We’re off, Clark. Want anything else?”
“No,” came the reply; “everything is right. I’ve just checked it all.”
“We have to take food and water,” the engineer explained to Waldron with a laugh. “Good night.”
“Good night—and good luck,” shouted Hubert, as the train moved off, and a strong, bare arm waved him farewell.