Presently he rode up to the little party. He saluted the
Professor and talked to him in his own language. The Professor turned to
the others.

"The Chief apologises for not recognising me," he announced. "It seems
that Craig had told him that he had come to the desert for shelter, and he
imagined at once, when he gave the order for the attack upon us, that we
were his enemies. He says that we are welcome to go with him to his
encampment."

Quest stood for a moment irresolute.

"Seems to me we're in a pretty fix," he muttered. "We've got to owe our
lives to that fellow Craig, anyway, and how shall we be able to get him
away from them, goodness only knows."

"That is for later," the Professor said gravely. "At present I think we
cannot do better than accept the hospitality of the Chief. Even now the
Chief is suspicious. I heard him ask Craig why, if these were his friends,
he did not greet them."

Craig turned slowly towards them. It was a strange meeting. His face was
thin and worn, there were hollows in his cheeks, a dull light in his
sunken eyes. He had the look of the hunted animal. He spoke to them in a
low tone.

"It is necessary," he told them, "that you should pretend to be my
friends. The Chief has ordered two of his men to dismount. Their ponies
are for the young ladies. There will be horses for you amongst the
captured ones from the caravan yonder."

"So we meet at last, Craig," the Professor said sternly.

Craig raised his eyes and dropped them again. He said nothing. He turned
instead once more towards Quest.

"Whatever there may be between us," he said, "your lives are mine at this
moment, if I chose to take them. For the sake of the women, do as I
advise. The Chief invites you to his encampment as his guests."

They all turned towards the Chief, who remained a little on the outside of
the circle. The Professor raised his hat and spoke a few words in his own
language, then he turned to the others.

"I have accepted the invitation of the Chief," he announced. "We had
better start."

* * * * *

"This may not be Delmonico's," Laura remarked, a few hours later, with a
little sigh of contentment, "but believe me that goat-stew and sherbet
tasted better than any chicken and champagne I ever tasted."

"And I don't quite know what tobacco this is," Quest added, helping
himself to one of a little pile of cigarettes which had been brought in to
them, "but it tastes goo