siegers were flying around us, or tossing up the hot sand at our feet. But their presence lent wings to our heels, and presently we were inside the little mud fortress and its gate swung shut behind us.
Here we were surrounded by a score of the dark, smiling men who were its defenders; tall, well-built fellows who, though dressed in the flowing robes of the desert, were decidedly of a non-Arabic origin. Their kindly attitude showed that they looked on us two newcomers as friends and allies.
It was a few minutes later that Sabbatier and I talked to their leader in the bare little room on the fort's roof that was her quarters. Briefly I related all that had befallen me since leaving New York, The Midnight Lady asking several practical questions in her musical voice.
Her utter fearlessness was almost uncanny. At intervals the crack of some sniper's bullet, entrenched on the sandhills a half-mile or so distant, would snap against the walls or towers, and once a shot whined through the window, to flatten itself against the wall not ten inches to the right of her, but neither by look nor by action did she betray the slightest knowledge of her danger.
It was only when I mentioned that the scroll was now in Manuel De Costa's hands that for an instant came a change. A wild despair flashed to those long-lashed eyes.
"You are sure of this, positive that he has secured the parchment that will guide him to the tomb?"
I shrugged. "I am afraid it has worked out that way."
"And you say that within a half-hour after his arrival in Dakar, Manuel De Costa is reported to have flown inland?"
At the affirmation of Captain Sabbatier, she toyed with the pen on the desk before her for a brief interval ere she answered slowly:
"Then I think I know the present whereabout of 'The Wolf.'"
The Midnight Lady rose from her chair, and walking to the small window, stood looking over the sandy wastes below her.
"He is out there," she spoke with a deadly Calmness. "He is out there behind those sand-hills at this very minute, directing the fire of those cursed Arabs toward us. A ship flew in two days ago and landed out there. It can mean but one thing—'The Wolf!'"
"But the tomb," spoke Sabbatier. "If De Costa has gained control of the chart, why does he not hasten to the tomb?"
"Plenty of time for that later, now that there is none to race him to it," was the answer. "No, you will find it is the plan of 'The Wolf' to silence the tongues of those who might speak against him, then proceed on to the tomb at his leisure."
There was a brief silence, broken only by an occasional shot from the sand-hills. It was then I recalled that something I realized might be of importance.
"But there is a bit more," I ventured. "Even with the chart in his possession I doubt if he can find the tomb. The parchment was a crude one that gave no idea as to any location, other than the story of the narrator that told of his many days travel inland. But as to the chart itself—why, it was only a little drawing of some odd-shaped mountains."
"Just odd enough, perhaps, to be recognized by one who knows the Sahara," she added with eyes still trained on the desert before her. "And you
