The woman, who wore a white dress, was clasped in the arms of the man, while he rained hot, passionate kisses upon her brow.
Waldron stood upon the soft sand, a silent witness of that exchange of passionate caresses. He feared to move lest he should attract their attention and be accused of eavesdropping.
From where he was, half concealed by the big trunk of a date-palm, he could distinctly hear the words uttered by the man.
“I have been here for three days awaiting you, darling. I travelled by Port Sudan and Khartoum, and then on here to meet you.”
“And I, too, Henri, have been wondering if you would arrive here in time,” was the girl’s response, as her head lay in sweet content upon her lover’s shoulder. “Imagine my delight when the Arab came on board and slipped your note into my hand.”
“Ah, Lola darling, how I have longed for this moment!—longed to hold you in my arms once again,” he cried.
Lola!
Hubert Waldron held his breath, scarce believing his own ears.
Yes, it was her voice—the voice he knew so well. She had met her lover there—in that out-of-the-way spot—he having travelled by the Red Sea route to the Sudan in order to keep the tryst.
Waldron stood there listening, like a man in a dream.