“The natives have been talking,” murmured Thatcher, reddening still deeper, “and they have said enough about your riding in at night and—­and keeping to this tomb all day to make the men very suspicious.  They are watching this one now—­”

“Then keep them back—­long as you can.  For God’s sake,” entreated Ryder with that strange passionate violence.  “Andy—­you do something—­hold them back.  Give me time.  I—­I’ve got to get some things together—­I won’t have them at my things—­hold them back—­out here—­till I come.”

He was gone.  Gone tearing back into the gloom and silence of his tomb.  And McLean and Thatcher, astounded witnesses of his outburst, turned speedily to the entrance, avoiding each other’s eyes.

Agitatedly Thatcher was murmuring that Ryder’s finds were valuable, immensely valuable, and it was disturbing to contemplate any invasion, and with equal agitation but more mechanical calm McLean was murmuring back that he understood—­he quite understood—­

As for understanding he was stunned and dazed.  A sheik’s daughter!  And the father himself claiming her—­under the direction of a blond-mustached man....  And a stolen horse....  Jack conceding the horse....  Jack utterly upset at the search party....

But he himself had seen that new-placed shaft with its inscription to Aimee Marie Dejane....  What then in the name of wonders did this mean?  There couldn’t be another girl?  McLean’s imagination faltered then dashed on at a gallop.  Some—­some hand-maiden, perhaps, whom Jack had rescued in mistaken chivalry?  Perhaps the French girl has sent a maid on ahead?

McLean’s head was whirling now.  One thing appeared quite as possible as another.  Pasha’s daughters and sheik’s daughters, stolen horses and Djinns and Afrits and palaces and masquerades at wedding receptions appeared upon the same plane of feasibility.

Outwardly he was extremely calm.  Calm and cold and crisp.

At the mouth of the tomb he detained the party of native policemen with their hangers-on of curious natives and examined, with great show of circumspection and authority, the perfectly regular search warrants which had been issued for them at the instigation of an apparently bereft parent.

He conversed with the alleged parent, a stolid, taciturn native dignitary whose accusations were confirmed by eagerly assenting followers.  He lived in a small village, not far north of the camp.  He had a young daughter, very beautiful.  Three nights ago he had surprised her with this young American and they had fled upon his noblest horse.

It was a simple and direct story.  And Jack—­by his own report—­had been out upon the desert that night, had appeared, upon the next night, with this unknown and beautiful horse, and had since kept to the tomb, claiming illness, in a most persistent way.

The camp boys had testified that he had been vividly critical of the food sent in to him, and that he had required extraordinary amounts of heated water.