He was conscious of Jack's look upon him but he did not turn to meet it.
"She died," he said heavily. "He buried her yesterday."
He thought that Jack was never going to speak.
Then, "Died?" said Ryder in an odd voice.
"I expect she breathed in a bit of smoke," said McLean, trying for a merciful suggestion.
Jack was like a child, trying to fit bewildering facts together. McLean's sympathy hurt him like a physical pain. He wondered what it could be like to realize that some loved one you had just talked with, in radiant life, was now gone utterly....
And then he heard Jack laugh. Mad, he thought quickly, turning now to look at him.
Ryder's head was tilted back; Ryder's shoulders were shaking. "Oh, my Aunt!" he gasped hysterically. "My Aunt Clarissa--is _that_ what Hamdi says!"
He sobered instantly and leaned towards McLean. "That looks as if he's done with her--what? Saving his face that way? You're sure it was Aimée--the girl he had just married? Not some other girl--some co-wife or something?"
And as McLean bewilderedly muttered that he was sure, Ryder began to laugh again. To laugh jubilantly, joyously, triumphantly.
"He's given her up--he's got a saving explanation to thrust in the world's face! Oh, blessed Allah, Veiler of all that should be veiled! The man's through. He's had enough. He isn't going to try to--"
Across the bright oblong of the entrance a shadow appeared.
"Ryder--I say, Ryder," said a hurried voice--Thatcher's voice--and Thatcher came hastily forward in perturbed urgency.
"There's a lot of men outside--police and natives and what not. With warrants. They're searching the place. And they want to see you.... Hang it all, Ryder," said Thatcher explosively but apologetically, "they say you've made off with some sheik's daughter."
He paused, shocked at the monstrosity of the accusation. He was a delicate-minded man--outside of his knowledge of antiquities--and he evidently expected his young associate to fall upon him and slay him for the slander.
"A sheik's daughter--?" said Ryder in a mildly wondering voice. From his emphasis one might have inferred he was saying, "How odd! I don't remember any sheik's daughter--"
A queer uncomfortable flush spread fanways from Thatcher's thin temples and rayed across his high cheekbones. He did not look at either of the men as he murmured, "It's most peculiar, but that Arab horse--the sheik claims the horse is his, too. He says you rode off on it, with his daughter."