This time Ryder took no chance with a shammed unconsciousness.  He snatched down bits of leather from the wall and bound the man’s hands and feet in tight security and seeing that he was breathing, although heavily, he thrust a gagging handkerchief into his mouth.

Then he dragged the heavy body towards a pile of hay he saw in a vacant stall and concealed it effectively but not too smotheringly—­although Yussuf, he felt, would be no grievous loss to society.

Vaguely in the back of his consciousness he had been aware of the excited plunge of the horse and then of a low, soothing murmur of speech, and now he turned to find Aimee holding the bridle and stroking the quivering creature with gentle, fearless hands.

“Is he dead?” she asked quietly of the eunuch.

“Stunned,” said Ryder, meaning reassurement and was startled by the passion of her cry, “Oh, I could kill them all—­all!”

“I will—­if they try to stop us,” he promised grimly, forgetful of that oath to Aziza.

Hastily he glanced about the stalls.  There was no other horse there, only a pair of mild-eyed donkeys, and though there might conceivably be other horses behind other doors there was no instant to spare in search.

This luck was too prodigious to risk.

The door to the street had already been unbolted and now he threw it back with a quick look into the dark emptiness of the narrow side street, and then, with a tight hold of the reins, he swung himself into the saddle and Aimee up into his arms, her head on his shoulder, her arms clasping him.

It was a huge Bedouin saddle with high-arched back and curved pummel and the slender pair no more than filled it, making apparently no weight at all for the spirited beast which tore out of the stalls at the charging gallop beloved of Eastern horsemen.

For a moment Ryder felt wildly that he might meet the fate of the rash youth in his patron story.  He had never ridden a horse like this, which, like all high-mettled Arabs, resented the authority of any but his master, and though a good horseman Ryder had all he could do to keep his seat and Aimee in his arms.

Around the corner of the lane the horse went racing, and down the dark, lebbek-lined avenue his flying feet struck back their sparks of fire.  Across an open square he plunged, while irate camels screamed at him and a harsh voice shouted back loud curses.  It seemed to Ryder that other voices joined in—­that there was a pursuit, an outcry—­and then they were out down an open road, wildly galloping, like a mad highwayman under a pale morning sky.

CHAPTER XXI

MISS JEFFRIES MAKES A CALL

That morning Miss Jeffries ate two eggs.  She ate them successively, with increasing deliberation, and afterwards she lingered interminably over her toast and marmalade.

Still Ryder made no appearance and since the Arab waiter had informed her that he had not yet breakfasted she concluded that he was not at the hotel but had spent the night with some friend of his—­probably that Andrew McLean to whom he was always running off.