onviction that failure was to be his
portion. He had attempted the impossible. He had offered himself in
vain; and any further sacrifice could only end in the same way. If Bobby
Duncannon were indeed dead, his task was done; but he had felt so
assured that he still lived that he could not bring himself to expel the
belief. It was the lack of knowledge that he could not endure, the
thought of returning to the woman he loved empty-handed, of seeing once
more the soul-hunger in her eyes, and being unable to satisfy it.

No, he could not face it. He would have to go back, even though it meant
to his destruction, unless this Mad Prophet could furnish him with proof
incontestable of young Duncannon's death. He glanced with impatience
towards the entrance. Why did the man delay?

He supposed the fellow would want _backsheesh_, and that thought sent
him searching among his tattered clothing for his pocket-book. He found
it with relief; and then again physical weakness asserted itself, and he
leaned back with closed eyes. His shoulder was throbbing with a fiery
pain. He wondered if Hassan knew how to treat it. If not, things would
probably get serious.

The buzzing of a multitude of flies distracted his thoughts from this,
and he began to long ardently for a smoke. He roused himself to hunt for
his cigarette-case; but he sought in vain and finally desisted with a
groan.

It was at this point that the tent-flap was drawn aside, admitting for a
moment the marvellous orange glow of the sinking sun, and a man attired
as an Arab came noiselessly in.

VII

Herne lay quite still, regarding his visitor with critical eyes.

The latter stood with his back to the western glow. His face was more
than half concealed by one end of his turban. He made no advance, but
stood like a brazen image, motionless, inscrutable, seeming scarcely
aware of the Englishman's presence.

It was Herne who broke the silence. The light was failing very rapidly.
He raised his voice with a touch of impatience.

"Hassan, where are you?"

At that the stranger moved, as one coming out of a deep reverie.

"There is no need to call your servant," he said, halting slightly over
the words. "I speak your language."

Herne opened his eyes in surprise. He knew that many of the Wandis had
come in contact with Englishmen, but few of them could be said to have a
knowledge of the language. He saw at a glance that the man before him
was no ordinary Wandi wa