John Craig finds himself in a dilemma.  To whom can he appeal in this, his hour of trial?  Will the authorities do anything for him in case the American or British consul make a demand?  Can they accomplish aught?  These wild Bedouins of the desert do not come under the jurisdiction of the Dey.  His orders would be laughed to scorn, and mounted on their swift Arabian steeds they would mock any effort to chase them.

So John is deeply puzzled, and knows not how to turn.  If the Frenchman, usually so bright and witty, cannot suggest something to help him out of this dilemma, he will have to depend upon himself alone; but Monsieur Constans shrugs his shoulders and professes to be all at sea.

Dimly John begins to suspect that this may not have been such an accident after all.

He begins to suspect a plot.

The driver? what of him?

His actions had been strange and almost crazy from the start, and yet John feels sure that if the case were thoroughly investigated it would be found that he was not in the habit of thus running with his loads over the rough part of his trip.

There is something unusual in this, and something that demands investigation.  The man’s actions were suspicious, to say the least, for just as soon as the break-down occurred he had vanished from view.

Evidently he was in league with some one.

John is furious to think that he left the scene of the disaster.

Why did he not let Sir Lionel go?  The baronet seemed to be in earnest in his offer, and under such circumstances—­but what nonsense after all, to think that he could do more, when the veteran of three wars was evidently unable to prevail against his foes.

Thus, after summing up, John is compelled to admit with a groan that he knows absolutely nothing about the case, and is in a position to learn little more.

He is a man of action, however, and can not bear to see minutes pass without at least an effort to utilize them.

Can they follow the track?

It is a possible solution of the problem, although it promises to be hard work.

Then, again, he thinks of his companion.  How far may the Gaul be trusted?  He has known Frenchmen who were brave; he has a good opinion of them as a fighting nation, and yet this individual specimen may not turn out to be a warrior.

With the hope of getting an ally, then, he turns to the subject of his anxiety.

“Monsieur Constans.”

“I am here.”

“Your words have come true.  Arab robbers have, I fear, carried off my friends.”

“Mon Dieu! it ees sad.”

“I am determined to rescue them.”

“Bravo! bravo!” clapping his hands with the excitement of the moment.

“One thing worries me.”

“Ah! monsieur must be plain.”

“It concerns you.”

“Le Diable! in what way?”