“Shocking business,” whispered Higgs; “been infamously treated,” and he proceeded to express his opinion of the lady concerned, of her relatives, and of the late Anthony Orme, shipowner, in language that, if printed, would render this history unfit for family reading.  The outspokenness of Professor Higgs is well known in the antiquarian world, so there is no need for me to enlarge upon it.

“What I do not exactly understand, Adams,” he added in a loud voice, seeing that Orme had turned again, “and what I think we should both like to know, is your exact object in making these proposals.”

“I am afraid I have explained myself badly.  I thought I had made it clear that I have only one object—­to attempt the rescue of my son, if he still lives, as I believe he does.  Higgs, put yourself in my position.  Imagine yourself with nothing and no one left to care for except a single child, and that child stolen away from you by savages.  Imagine yourself, after years of search, hearing his very voice, seeing his very face, adult now, but the same, the thing you had dreamed of and desired for years; that for which you would have given a thousand lives if you could have had time to think.  And then the rush of the howling, fantastic mob, the breakdown of courage, of love, of everything that is noble under the pressure of primaeval instinct, which has but one song—­Save your life.  Lastly, imagine this coward saved, dwelling within a few miles of the son whom he had deserted, and yet utterly unable to rescue or even to communicate with him because of the poltroonery of those among whom he had refuged.”

“Well,” grunted Higgs, “I have imagined all that high-faluting lot.  What of it?  If you mean that you are to blame, I don’t agree with you.  You wouldn’t have helped your son by getting your own throat cut, and perhaps his also.”

“I don’t know,” I answered.  “I have brooded over the thing so long that it seems to me that I have disgraced myself.  Well, there came a chance, and I took it.  This lady, Walda Nagasta, or Maqueda, who, I think, had also brooded over things, made me an offer—­I fancy without the knowledge or consent of her Council.  ‘Help me,’ she said, ’and I will help you.  Save my people, and I will try to save your son.  I can pay for your services and those of any whom you may bring with you.’

“I answered that it was hopeless, as no one would believe the tale, whereon she drew from her finger the throne-ring or State signet which you have in your pocket, Higgs, saying:  ’My mothers have worn this since the days of Maqueda, Queen of Sheba.  If there are learned men among your people they will read her name upon it and know that I speak no lie.  Take it as a token, and take also enough of our gold to buy the stuffs whereof you speak, which hide fires that can throw mountains skyward, and the services of skilled and trusty men who are masters of the stuff, two or three of them only, for more cannot be transported across the desert, and come back to save your son and me.’  That’s all the story, Higgs.  Will you take the business on, or shall I try elsewhere?  You must make up your mind, because I have no time to lose, if I am to get into Mur again before the rains.”