“H’m,” said the mate thoughtfully; “but will Wenlock be as civil and limp next time you call, sir?”

Captain Kettle winked pleasantly, and put a fifty-pound note in his lock-up drawer.  “That’s all right, my lad.  No fear of Master Wenlock getting his tail up.  If you’d seen the good lady, his wife, you’d know why.  That’s the man that went hunting an heiress, Mr. Murray; and by the holy James he’s got her, and no error.”

CHAPTER IX

A MATTER OF JUSTICE

It was quite evident that the man wanted something; but Captain Kettle did not choose definitely to ask for his wishes.  Over-curiosity is not a thing that pays with Orientals.  Stolid indifference, on the other hand, may earn easy admiration.

But at last the man took his courage in a firmer grip, and came up from the Parakeet’s lower deck, where the hands were working cargo, and advanced under the bridge deck awnings to Captain Kettle’s long chair and salaamed low before him.

Kettle seemed to see the man for the first time.  He looked up from the accounts he was laboring at.  “Well?” he said, curtly.

It was clear the Arab had no English.  It was clear also that he feared being watched by his fellow countrymen in the lighter which was discharging date bags alongside.  He manoeuvred till the broad of his back covered his movements, materialized somehow or other a scrap of paper from some fold of his burnous, dropped this into Kettle’s lap without any perceptible movement of either his arms or hands, and then gave another stately salaam and moved away to the place from which he had come.

“If you are an out-of-work conjuror,” said Kettle to the retreating figure, “you’ve come to the wrong place to get employment here.”

The Arab passed out of sight without once turning his head, and Kettle glanced down at the screw of paper which lay on his knees, and saw on it a scrawl of writing.

“Hullo,” he said, “postman, were you; not conjuror?  I didn’t expect any mail here.  However, let’s see.  Murray’s writing, by James!” he muttered, as he flattened out the grimy scrap of paper, and then he whistled-with surprise and disgust as he read.

“Dear Captain,” the letter ran. “I’ve got into the deuce of a mess, and if you can bear a hand to pull me out, it would be a favor I should never forget.  I got caught up that side street to the left past the mosque, but they covered my head with a cloth directly after, and hustled me on for half an hour, and where I am now, the dickens only knows.  It’s a cellar.  But perhaps bearer may know, who’s got my watch.  The trouble was about a woman, a pretty little piece who I was photographing.  You see—­”

And here the letter broke off.