ngular because Mustapha Cadi was on the top of
the coach at the time of the wreck, and he disappeared with the driver.

It can only be accounted for by the fact that like most keen men John
Craig is in the habit of relying upon his judgment in such matters, and
there is something about the face of Mustapha that wins his confidence.

Then, again, there are the events of the preceding night. The courier
stood by him like a Spartan hero; yes, he can be trusted.

Thus John meets the guide warmly, and a new hope immediately springs
into existence, a hope born of confidence.

"What does all this mean, Mustapha Cadi? See, I have brought the agent
of the stage line, but when we arrive at the scene of the wreck we find
it deserted. What does it mean? Have my friends fallen into the hands of
robbers?"

Mustapha immediately nods his head.

"It is so, monsieur."

"Who are they?"

"Arabs, Kabyles, Moors--all who hate the Franks, yet love money more.
They are under a desperate leader, the Tiger of the Desert."

At this Monsieur Constans utters a low cry.

"He means Bab Azoun, ze terrible gate-way of death."

Mustapha again nods, and John resumes his cross-questioning with a
lawyer's tact.

"Were our friends injured?"

"Not seriously. They fight well. The soldier threatens to kill all, but
they do not allow him to do it."

"Brave Blunt; he deserves a Victoria cross. But where were you,
Mustapha?"

The Arab hangs his face; he looks sheepish.

"I come up just when all was over. They twenty against one. It would be
foolish for me to try and fight. I believe I can do better; so I watch,
I follow, I learn much."

John cannot restrain his feelings. He seizes the Arab's dusky hand and
shakes it with real Chicago ardor.

"Mustapha, you're a jewel. Go on. Where did you go at the time of the
accident?"

"Bismallah! I was after him, the cause of it all--him, who entered into
this conspiracy--the driver. Monsieur, he ran like a deer through the
dark. I thought to grasp him more than once, but each time he turned and
let me hug the air. But success at last."

"You got him?"

"He picked up a stone with his foot and stretched his length on the
ground. Here was my opportunity. I embraced it. Both were out of breath,
but I held him there, pinned to the earth. Great is Allah, and Mohammed
is his prophet."

"Did you make him confess?"

"I tried to persuade by silvery speech, but it did not meet with
success. Then I turned