“That night I found myself confronted by a Marnier whom I had never seen before.  The desert wine had gone to the lad’s brain.  That was certain.  No intonations of the Oxford don lurked in the voice.  No reminiscences of the Oxford ‘High’ clung about the manner.  A man sober and the same man drunk are scarcely more different than the Marnier who had ridden with me up the sandy street of Beni-Kouidar the previous day and the man who sat opposite to me at dinner in the ‘Rendezvous des Amis’ that night.  I knew in a moment that the aumonier was right, and that I must get the lad away at once from the intoxicant which nature poured out over this far-away city.  His eyes were shining feverishly, and when I mentioned Mr. Ruskin in a casual way he looked unutterably bored.

“‘Ruskin and all those fellows seem awfully slow and out of place here,’ he exclaimed.  ‘One doesn’t want to bother about them in the Sahara.’

“I changed the subject.

“‘There doesn’t seem very much to see here,’ I said carelessly.  ’We might get away the day after to-morrow, don’t you think?’

“He drew his brows down.

“‘The horses won’t be sufficiently rested,’ he said curtly.

“‘Oh yes; I fancy they will.’

“‘Well, I don’t fancy I shall.  The long ride took it out of me.’

“‘Turn in to-night, then, directly after dinner.’

“He looked at me with sharp suspicion.  I met his gaze blandly.

“‘I mean to,’ he said after a short pause.

“I knew he was telling me a lie, but I only said:  ‘That’s right!’ and resolved to keep an eye on him.

“Directly dinner was over he sprang up from the table.

“‘Good-night,’ he said.

“And before I could reply he was out of the salle-a-manger, and I heard him tramp along the brick floor of the passage, go into his room, and bang the door.

“The aumonier was getting up from his little table, and shaking the crumbs from his soutane.

“‘You are quite right, monsieur,’ I said to him.  ’I must get my friend away.’

“‘I shall be sorry to lose you,’ replied the good priest.  ’But ­desert air, desert air!’

“He shook his head, half wistfully, half laughingly, bowed, put on his broad-brimmed black hat, and went out.

“After a moment I followed him.  I stood in the doorway of the inn, and lit a cigar.  I knew Marnier was not going to bed, and meant to catch him when he came out, and join him.  In common politeness he could scarcely refuse my company, since he had asked me as a favour to let him come with me to Beni-Kouidar.  I waited, watching the moon rise, till my cigar was smoked out.  Then I lit another.  Still he did not come.  I heard the distant throb of tomtoms beyond the Bureau Arabe in the quarter of the freed negroes.  They were having a fantasia.  I began to think that I must have been mistaken, and that Marnier had really turned in.  So much the better.  The ash dropped from the stump of my second cigar, and the deserted camel market was flooded with silver from the moon-rays.  I knew there was only one door to the inn.  Slowly I lit a third cigar.

“A large cloud went over the face of the moon.  A gust of wind struck my face.  Suddenly the night had changed.  The moon looked forth again, and was again obscured.  A second gust struck me like a blow, and my face was stung by a multitude of sand grains.  I heard steps behind me in the brick passage, turned swiftly, and saw the landlord.

“‘I must shut the door, m’sieu,’ he said.  ’There’s a bad sandstorm coming up.’

“As he spoke the wind roared, and over the camel market a thick fog seemed to fall abruptly.  It was a sheet of sand from the surrounding dunes.  I threw away my cigar, stepped into the passage, and the landlord banged the door, and drove home the heavy bolts.

“Then I went to Marnier’s room, and knocked.  I felt sure, but I thought I would make sure before going to my room.

“No answer.

“I knocked again loudly.

“Again no answer.

“Then I turned the handle, and entered.

“The room was empty.  I glanced round quickly.  The small window was open.  All the windows of the inn were barred, but, as I learned later, a bar in Marnier’s had been broken, and was not yet replaced when we arrived at Beni-Kouidar.  In consequence of this it was possible to squeeze through into the arcade outside.  This was what Marnier had done.  My precise, gentlemanly, reserved, and methodical acquaintance had deliberately given me the slip by sneaking out of a window like a schoolboy, and creeping round the edge of the inn to the fosse that lay in the shadow of the sand dimes.  As I realised this I realised his danger.

“I ran to my room, fetched my revolver, slipped it into my pocket, and hurried to the front door.  The landlord heard me trying to undo the bolts, and came out protesting.

“‘M’sieu cannot go out into the storm.’

“‘I must.’

“’But m’sieu does not know what Beni-Kouidar is like when the sand is blown on the wind.  It is enfer.  Besides, it is not safe.  In the darkness m’sieu may receive a mauvais coup.’

“‘Make haste, please, and open the door.  I am going to fetch my friend.’

“He pulled the bolts, grumbling and swearing, and I went out into enfer.  For he was right.  A sandstorm at night in Beni-Kouidar is hell.

“Luckily, Safti joined me mysteriously from the deuce knows where, and we staggered to the dancing-house somehow, and struggled in, blinded, our faces scored, our clothes heavy with sand, our pockets, our very boots, weighed down with it.

“The tomtoms were roaring, the pipe was yelling, blown by the frantic demon with his hood full of latch keys, the impassible, bearded faces were watching the painted women who, in their red garments and their golden crowns, promenaded down the earthen floor, between the divans, fluttering their dyed fingers, smiling grotesquely like idols, bending forward their greasy foreheads to receive the tribute of their admirers.

“I ran my eyes swiftly over the mob.  Marnier was not in it.  I pushed my way towards the doorway on the left which gave on to the court of the dancers.

“Safti caught hold of my arm.

“’It is not safe to go in there on such a night, Sidi.  There are no lamps.  It is black as a tomb.  And no one can tell who may be there.  Nomads, perhaps, men of evil from the south.  Many murders have been done in the court on black nights, and no one can say who has done them.  For all the time men go in and out to the rooms of the dancers.’

“‘Nevertheless, Safti, I must ­’

“I stopped speaking, for at this moment Batouch, the brother of the Caïd of Beni-Kouidar, came slowly in through the doorway from the blackness of the sand-swept court.  There was a strange smile on his handsome face, and he was caressing his black beard gently with one delicate hand.  He saw me, smiled more till I caught the gleam of his white teeth, passed on into the dancing-house, sat down on a divan, and called for coffee.  I could not take my eyes from him.  Every movement he made fascinated me.  He drew from his pale blue robe a silver box, opened it, lifted out a pinch of tobacco, and began carefully to roll a cigarette.  And all the time he smiled.

“A glacial cold crept over my body.  As he lit his cigarette I caught hold of Safti, and hurried through the doorway into the blackness of the whirling sand.”

Here I stopped.

“Well?” said young England.  “Well?”

The doctor did not speak.

“Well,” I answered.  “Algia danced that night.  While she was dancing we found a dead body in the court.  It was Marnier’s.  A knife had been thrust into him from behind!”

“Ah!” said the doctor.

“But ­” exclaimed young England, “it was that fellow?  It was Batouch?”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“Nobody ever found out who did it.”

“Well, but of course ­”

He checked himself, and an expression of admiration dawned slowly over his healthy, handsome face.

“I say,” he said, “to be able to roll a cigarette directly afterwards!  What infernal cheek!”

“Desert air!” I replied.  “My dear chap ­desert air!”

The doctor nodded.