Stephen went
on.

"I do not think there was a town near; yet there was a village not far
off to the south. I saw it from the hill-top, both as I went in at the
gate with my cousin, and when, months later, I was sent away with her.
We did not pass through it, because our road was to and from the north;
and I do not even know the name of the village. But there was a cemetery
outside it, where some of the master's ancestors and relations were
buried. I heard my lady speak of it one day, when she cried because she
feared to die and be laid there without ever again seeing her own
country and her own people. Oh, and once I heard Yamina talk with
another servant about an oasis called Bou-Saada. It was not near, yet I
think it could be reached by diligence in a long day."

"Good!" broke in Nevill. "There's our first real clue! Bou-Saada I know
well. When people who come and visit me want a glimpse of the desert in
a hurry, Bou-Saada is where I take them. One motors there from Algiers
in seven or eight hours--through mountains at first, then on the fringe
of the desert; but it's true, as Mouni says, going by diligence, and
walking now and then, it would be a journey of days. Her description of
the house on the hill, looking down over a village and cemetery, will be
a big help. And Ben Halim's name is sure to be known in the country
round, if he ever lived there."

"He may have been gone for years," said Stephen. "And if there's a
conspiracy of silence in Algiers, why not elsewhere?"

"Well, at least we've got a clue, and will follow it up for all we know.
By Jove, this is giving me a new interest in life!" And Nevill rubbed
his hands in a boyish way he had. "Tell us what the beautiful lady was
like," he went on to Mouni.

"Her skin was like the snow on our mountain-tops when the sunrise paints
the white with rose," answered Mouni. "Her hair was redder than the red
of henna, and when it was unfastened it hung down below her waist. Her
eyes were dark as a night without moon, and her teeth were little,
little pearls. Yet for all her beauty she was not happy. She wasted the
flower of her youth in sadness, and though the master was noble, and
splendid as the sun to look upon, I think she had no love to give him,
perhaps because he was grave and seldom smiled, or because she was a
Roumia and could not suit herself to the ways of true believers."

"Did she keep to her own religion?" asked Stephen.

"That I cannot tell. I was t