“Monday.  Twenty-nine miles south-east of Port Said.  We have stayed for two days at a little Mongar village.  I have to-day come to the definite conclusion that anthropoid apes were at one time denizens of this country.

“Tuesday.  Both Craig and I have been a little uneasy to-day.  These Mongars into whose encampment we have found our way, are one of the strangest and fiercest of the nomad tribes.  They are descended, without a doubt, from the ancient Mongolians, who invaded this country some seven hundred years before Christ.  They have interbred with the Arabs to some extent, but have preserved in a marvellous way their individuality as a race.  They have the narrow eyes and the thick nose base of the pure Oriental; also much of his cunning.  One of their special weaknesses seems to be the invention of the most hideous forms of torture, which they apply remorselessly to their enemies.”

“Pleasant sort of people,” Quest muttered.

“We escaped with our lives,” the Professor explained earnestly, “from these people, only on account of an incident which you will find in this next paragraph:—­”

“Wednesday.  This has been a wonderful day for as, chiefly owing to what I must place on record as an act of great bravery by Craig, my servant.  Early this morning, a man-eating lion found his way into the encampment.  The Mongars behaved like arrant cowards.  They fled right and left, leaving the Chief’s little daughter, Feerda, at the brute’s mercy.  Craig, who is by no means an adept in the use of firearms, chased the animal as he was making off with the child, and, more by good luck than anything else, managed to wound it mortally.  He brought the child back to the encampment just as the Chief and the warriors of the tribe returned from a hunting expedition.  Our position here is now absolutely secure.  We are treated like gods, and, appreciating my weakness for all matters of science, the Chief has to-day explained to me many of the secret mysteries of the tribe.  Amongst other things, he has shown me a wonderful secret poison, known only to this tribe, which they call Veedemzoo.  It brings almost instant death, and is exceedingly difficult to trace.  The addition of sugar causes a curious condensation and resolves it almost to a white paste.  The only antidote is a substance which they use here freely, and which is exactly equivalent to our camphor.”

The Professor closed his book.  Quest promptly rang the bell.

“Some sugar,” he ordered, turning to the steward.

They waited in absolute silence.  The suggestion which the Professor’s disclosure had brought to them was stupefying, even Quest’s fingers, as a moment or two later he rubbed two knobs of sugar together so that the particles should fall into the tubes of bouillon, shook.  The result was magical.  The bouillon turned to a strange shade of grey and began slowly to thicken.