Marching Sands
was, they said, 'just like him.' And in one of his trips near the desert edge he saw a tall figure running toward him over the sand, staggering from weariness. Then several Chinese riders appeared from the sand dunes and headed off the fugitive. But not before Brent had seen that the man's face was partially white."
"Partially?" asked Gray quizzically.
"I am quoting literally. Yes, that was what Brent said. He was prevented by his native bearers from going into the Gobi to investigate. They believed the usual superstitions about the desert—evil spirits and so forth—and they warned Brent against a thing they called the pale sickness."
Gray looked up quietly. "You know what that is?"
"We do not know, and surmises are valueless." He shrugged. "You have an idea?"
"Hardly, yet—you say that Brent is ill. Could he be seen?"
"I fancy not. He is in a California sanitarium, broken down from overwork, the doctors informed me.
"I see." Gray scrutinized his companions. The same eagerness showed in each face, the craving for discovery which is greater than the lust of the gold prospector. They were hanging on his next words. "Gentlemen, do you realize that three great difficulties are to be met? Money—China—and a
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