glance at his captor's face, and a pallor of fear overspread his features. Strong fingers were at his throat, fingers of steel. He tried to cry out, to plead for his life; but the cruel fingers denied him speech, as they were as surely denying him life.
"The pretty pebbles?" cried the man upon his breast. "What did you with the pretty pebbles — with Tarzan's pretty pebbles?"
The fingers relaxed to permit of a reply. For some time Werper could only choke and cough — at last he regained the powers of speech.
"Achmet Zek, the Arab, stole them from me," he cried; "he made me give up the pouch and the pebbles."
"I saw all that," replied Tarzan; "but the pebbles in the pouch were not the pebbles of Tarzan — they were only such pebbles as fill the bottoms of the rivers, and the shelving banks beside them. Even the Arab would not have them, for he threw them away in anger when he had looked upon them. It is my pretty pebbles that I want — where are they?"
"I do not know, I do not know," cried Werper. "I gave them to Achmet Zek or he would
