"How do you know--all--this?" she whispered with dry lips that
trembled.
"I wished to know. It was quite simple." The answer was given
carelessly, and again the thin thread of smoke drifted across her face.
Her anger flamed up again. "Is it money that you want? Are you holding
me for ransom?" But her scornful voice faltered and died away on the
last word, and it did not need his silence to convince her that it was
no question of ransom. She had only spoken to try and stifle the inner
conviction that grew despite her efforts to crush it. Her hands were
locked together tightly, her eyes still staring out unseeing at the
wonderful sunset. She felt dazed, hopeless, like a fugitive who has
turned into a cul-de-sac, hemmed in on every side; there seemed no way
out, no loophole of escape. She wrung her hands convulsively and a
great shudder shook her. Then in her despair a faint ray of hope came.
"Mustafa Ali, or one of the caravan men may have given the alarm
already in Biskra--if you have not--murdered them all," she whispered
jerkily.
"I have not murdered them all," he rejoined shortly, "but Mustafa Ali
will not give any alarm in Biskra."
"Why?" She tried to keep silent, but the question was forced from her,
and she waited tense for his answer. Tales of ruthless Arab cruelty
surged through her mind. What had been the fate of the unfortunate
caravan leader? Her eyes closed and her throat grew dry.
"There was no need for any murder," he continued sarcastically. "When
you come to know me better you will realise that I do not leave too
much to chance. 'All things are with Allah, blessed be his name.' Good!
But it is well to remember that Allah does not always concern himself
with the affairs of men, and arrange accordingly. If I had left this
affair to chance there might very easily have been, as you suggest,
murder done--though we do not call it murder in the desert. It was very
simple. Voyons! You paid Mustafa Ali well to guide you in the
desert. I paid him better to lead you to me. I paid him well enough to
make him content to remove himself from Biskra, where awkward questions
might be asked, to another sphere of usefulness where he is not known,
and where he can build up for himself a new reputation as a caravan
leader."
There was another silence and her hands went groping to her throat. It
had been no chance affair then--no accidental meeting that the Arab
chief had turned to his own account, but an organised outrage that had
been carefully planned from the beginning. From the very outset she had
been a dupe. She ground her teeth with rage. Her suave, subservient
guide had been leading her the whole time, not in the direction that
had been mapped out in Biskra, but towards the man who had bought him
to betray his trust. Mustafa Ali's shifting eyes, his desire to hurry
her from the oasis where they had rested at mid-day, his tone were all
explained. He had acted well. The last touch--the imaginary wound that
had toppled him slowly out of his saddle had been a masterpiece, she
reflected bitterly. Nothing had been omitted to make the attempt a
success.