h.
A friend in Oran had written Schreiber the last news of poor Madame
Delatour. That broken heart had failed. She had died suddenly about two
years ago, and the girl (yes, there was a daughter, a strange young
person) had been engaged through the influence of Schreiber's Oran
friends, to assist the proprietor of the Hotel Splendide at
Sidi-bel-Abbes. She was, Schreiber believed, still there, in the
position of secretary; unless she'd lately married. It was some months
since he'd heard.

Sidi-bel-Abbes.... Home of the Foreign Legion; home perhaps, of Sanda
DeLisle!...

* * * * *

It was all over, then. The blow had fallen, and Max thought that he must
be stunned by it, for he felt nothing, except a curious thrill which
came with the news that he must go to Sidi-bel-Abbes. The Arab name rang
in his ears like the sound of bells--fateful bells that chime at
midnight for birth or death. It seemed to him that Something had always
been waiting, hidden behind a corner of life, calling him to
Sidi-bel-Abbes, calling for good or evil, for sorrow or happiness, who
could tell? but calling. And his whole past, with its fun and popularity
and gay adventure, its one unfinished love story, its one tragic
episode, had been a long road leading him on toward this day--and
Sidi-bel-Abbes.

The temptation to go back, to forget his mission, a temptation which had
come to life many times after it had first been "scotched, not killed,"
did not now lift its head. Max had found out within less than an hour
after landing that which would make him penniless and nameless; yet his
most pressing wish seemed to be to get back in time for his appointment
with Sanda DeLisle, and tell her that he, too, was going to
Sidi-bel-Abbes.

CHAPTER VII

SIR KNIGHT

Max hurried back to the St. George, knowing that he would be late, and
arrived somewhat breathless on the terrace, at a quarter-past five. Miss
DeLisle would forgive him when he explained. And he would explain! He
was half minded to tell everything to the one human being within four
thousand miles who cared.

It was March, and the height of the season in Algiers. Many people were
having tea on the flower-draped terrace framed by a garden of orange
trees and palms, and cypresses rising like burnt-out torches against the
blue fire of the African sky. Max's eyes searched eagerly among the
groups of pretty women in white and pale colours for a slim figure