d again the bitter cry of a woman's wrung heart, "Bobby is still
alive and wanting me."

Would she say that when she knew? Would she still reach out her hands to
this monstrous wreck of humanity, this shattered ruin of what had once
been a tower of splendid strength? Would she feel bound to offer
herself? Was her love sufficient to compass such a sacrifice? The bare
thought revolted him.

"Are you satisfied?" asked the voice that seemed to him like a mocking
echo of Bobby's ardent tones. "Why don't you speak?"

A great struggle was going on in Herne's soul. For Betty's sake--for
Betty's sake--should he hold his peace? Should he take upon himself a
responsibility that was not his? Should he deny this man the chance that
was his by right--the awful chance--of returning to her? The temptation
urged him strongly; the fight was fierce. But--was it because he still
grasped that bony hand?--he conquered in the end.

"I haven't told you yet why I came to look for you," he said.

"Is it worth while?" The question was peculiarly deliberate, yet not
wholly cynical.

Desperately Herne compelled himself to answer.

"You have got to know it, seeing it was not for my own
satisfaction--primarily--that I came."

"Why then?" The brief query held scant interest; but the hand he still
grasped stirred ever so slightly in his.

Herne set his teeth.

"Because--someone--wanted you."

"No one ever wanted me," said the Wandi Mullah curtly.

But Herne had tackled his task, and he pursued it unflinching.

"I came for the sake of a woman who once--long ago--refused to marry
you, but who has been waiting for you--ever since."

"A woman?" Undoubtedly there was a savage note in the words. The
shrunken fingers clenched upon Herne's hand.

"Betty Derwent," said Herne very quietly.

Dead silence fell in the darkened tent--the silence of the desert,
subtle, intense, in a fashion terrible. It lasted for a long time; so
long a time that Herne suffered himself at last to relax, feeling the
strain to be more than he could bear. He leaned among his pillows, and
waited. Yet still, persistently, he grasped that cold, sinuous hand,
though the very touch of it repelled him, as the touch of a reptile
provokes instinctive loathing. It lay quite passive in his own, a thing
inanimate, yet horribly possessed of life.

Slowly at last through the darkness a voice came:

"Monty!"

It was hardly more than a whisper; yet on the instant, as if by magi