He paused, as though the careful structure of the long sentence had fatigued him.

“Major Carstair’s explanations were always in the imagery of romance.  He sought `a treasure — a treasure that would destroy a Kingdom.’  And his indicatory data seemed to be the dried blossom of our desert poppy.”

Again the Oriental paused.  He put up his hand and passed his fingers over his face.  The gaunt hand contrasted with the full contour.

“I confess that we did not know what to do.  We realized that we had to deal with a nature possessing in one direction the exact accurate knowledge of a man of science, and in another the wonder extravagances of a child.  The Dalai Lama was not yet able to be consulted, and it seemed to us a better plan to say no more about the impossible treasure, and address our endeavors to the practical side of Major Carstair’s intelligence instead.  We now pointed out the physical dangers of the region.  The deadly chill in it coming on at sunset could not fail to inflame the lungs of a European, accustomed to an equable temperature, fever would follow; and within a few days the unfortunate victim would find his whole breathing space fatally congested.”

The man removed his hand.  The care in his articulation was marked.

“Major Carstair was not turned aside by these facts, and we permitted him to go on.”

Again he paused as though troubled by a memory.

“In this course,” he continued, “the Dalai Lama considered us to have acted at the extreme of folly.  But it is to be remembered, in our behalf, that somewhat of the wonder at Major Carstair’s knowledge of Western science dealing with the human body was on us, and we felt that perhaps the climatic peril of the Gobi might present no difficult problem to him.

“We were fatally misled.”

Then he added.

“We were careful to direct him along the highest route of the plateau, and to have his expedition followed.  But chance intervened.  Major Carstair turned out of the route and our patrol went on, supposing him to be ahead on the course which we had indicated to him.  When the error was at last discovered, our patrol was entering the Sirke range.  No one could say at what point on the route Major Carstair had turned out, and our search of the vast waste of the Gobi desert began.  The high wind on the plateau removes every trace of human travel.  The whole of the region from the Sirke, south, had to be gone over.  It took a long time.”

The man stopped like one who has finished a story.  The girl had not moved; her face was strained and white.  The fog outside had thickened; the sounds of the city seemed distant.  The girl had listened without a word, without a gesture.  Now she spoke.

“But why were you so concerned about my father?”

The big Oriental turned about in the chair.  He looked steadily at the girl, he seemed to be treating the query to his involved method of translation; and Miss Carstair felt that the man, because of this tedious mental process, might have difficulty to understand precisely what she meant.