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 On and on he went through the evil-smelling labyrinthin native streets until he reached a dark tree-shaded avenue, and a massive iron gate set in a high white wall.

"The Black Camel walks swiftly," he said in Arabic, as a tall form approached, wrapped in a burnous like his own.

"Where does it walk?"

"Over the gray face of the desert," was Gissing's prompt reply.

The guardian of the gate waved him on, and in a few moments Gissing was unburdening himself of his heavy burnous, and stood in the rich black silk robes of his order.

Around him were dozens of similar figures, all in black, all wearing a headdress in the likeness of a camel, all with a long black silk veil falling straight from beneath the eyes to the hem of their robes, and on each veil was blazoned a silver number. Even voices were disguised, and Gissing, with the rest, spoke through a little mouthpiece which rendered speech curiously shrill and sibilant.

Gissing knew that Buzak was in the city, getting together men and camels and provisions for the long journey across the desert to El Zoonda. This fact had been easy to ascertain. And, as leader of the Black Camels, his enemy would almost certainly be present at this, the most important function of the year.

Gissing mixed freely with the crowd, so eager to find Buzak that he lost sight of the danger of meeting his own number face to face. How to discover Buzak? How to distinguish him in this mass of black-robed brethren?

In pairs, in groups, sometimes singly, the brethren were beginning to settle like a flock of blackbirds about the great domed hall, reclining on piles of soft cushions, or squatting cross-legged on wonderful silken rugs which were strewn over the mosaic floor. Incongruous enough they looked—somber macabre figures in the spacious brilliant place, with its white carven pillars and Moorish arches, its Oriental lavishness of color, its perfume of incense and attar of roses, and its general air of ease and voluptuousness.

Then luck—blind luck—led Gissing to sink down in a certain alcove. Several other brethren already sat there, exchanging remarks in the peculiar speech their mouthpieces produced.

One of the occupants of the alcove moved slightly to give the latest corner room, and in so doing, he dragged the robe of a man by his side, exposing the sandalled foot of his neighbor for a moment. It was only a fleeting glimpse that Gissing had, but it was enough. He recognized that foot, with its bleached wrinkled skin, puckered and drawn up like the hand of a washerwoman.

This was the White-footed One himself—Buzak the White-footed One who sat within reach of his hand! Gissing trembled with the shock of his sudden discovery, and for a moment the silver number on his enemy's veil wavered and melted dizzily before his eyes.

He fought the blind swimming sensation desperately, afraid that his good luck would vanish before he could take advantage of it, and that Buzak and his number would disappear like a mirage in the desert. Clenching his hands under the long loose sleeves of his robe, he forced himself to calm. Slowly the blood stopped pounding and rushing in his ears, slowly his vision cleared, and he saw the glittering number sharp and distinct once more.

"27."

Gissing leaned back heavily against a yielding mass of cushions and closed his eyes.

"I've got him!" he told himself, tremendous exultation surging up within him. "I've got him! I'll claim my