It was his intention to go to Al Jezira, to seek the French commandant at the barracks known as the Kasbah, and give him the information concerning Bab Azoun.

It has long been the ambition of the various French generals stationed in Algeria to kill or capture the notorious desert prince who for years has defied their power, suddenly making a bold dash upon some point, and, leaving smoking ruins in his wake, as mysteriously vanish.

Again and again have they sought to track his band over the plains, along the desert and into the wild recesses of the mountains, but it has always turned out a failure.  Bab Azoun, on his native heath, laughs them to scorn, and once laid an ambuscade in which the soldiers suffered badly.

Hence, it can be set down as certain that the military governor of Algiers will be delighted with a chance to surround the tiger of the desert, and his band, so close to the city—­that as soon as the news is carried to him he will fit out a secret expedition against the enemy.

Now that there are three of them instead of one, it is not necessary that all should go.  A single messenger is enough.

Whom shall it be?

Fate decrees.

They look to Monsieur Constans.  Mustapha is needed to serve as a guide to the old mines, and Doctor Chicago ought to be on hand, because it is to rescue his friends they go.

Even the French agent recognizes this fact.

“Parbleu! Monsieur Craig, it ees right I should go.  Besides, I am well acquaint wiz ze commandant.  Zen let us consider ze business as settle.  I sall away to ze Kasbah, and zen in due time look for ze swoop of ze French zouaves. Begar! if Emile Constans may have a hand in ze capture of zat deevil, ze reward will allow him to visit ze adorable Paris again.  I am off.  I sall let nothing stop me. Allons!”

With a majestic wave of the hand he turns his back on them and runs.

They stand and listen.

Plainly can they hear him plunging on through the darkness in the direction of the spot where the old stage was left.  Once, twice he measures his length on the ground, only to scramble to his feet, and uttering choice Parisian invectives, continue his flight.

“Now he reaches the stage,” says John.

Then comes the crack of a whip.

“They are off.  Jupiter! what a noise he makes!  How the old stage rattles and bangs.  The man is raving mad to plunge over such ground at a reckless pace like that.  He will surely meet the same fate, sooner or later, that befell the old vehicle we were in.  He only thinks of the reward; of a great holiday lasting six months, on the boulevards and in the cafes of Paris.  Sometimes there’s a slip between—­Great Scott! he’s over!” as there comes a grand smash and then utter silence.

Mustapha appears uneasy.

“Monsieur, it is their worst fault; they are too hot-blooded.  Not so the English.  He is dead.”