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 But—so late at night, with a wind whipping up that would bring sand from the desert a few hundred kilometers south—he might ask a great deal for the use of it.

Weiss dragged at his wallet, and the beady black eyes gleamed as he opened it in the distant light of the café. Yes, yes! For all that he could have the so beautiful machine to drive him away at once. The shadowy, white figure sank into the street's darkness.

As he waited for the man's return, Weiss tried to form some kind of a plan. He would be driven to Tunis. Ought to reach there before noon of the next day. Then some kind of a disguise, some vague manner of getting on a boat bound for Mexico or South America. But the main thing was to leave here at once and get to Tunis. In Tunis were coffeeskinned gentlemen who spoke English and would surely hide him and get him a passport of sorts in exchange for the balance of the franc notes he had in his wallet.

Two figures suddenly stood beside him. Again the broken speech of the man who had gone for the car. He was informed huskily that the street they were in was, of course, too narrow for an automobile to negotiate. Would he please follow?

He stepped on the heels in front of him in his haste. The other man was the driver and owner of the car. He could speak no English, and stalked aloof in dirt and dignity. He would be told, through the first, where he was to go. Tunis? But certainly!

walk was a long one. Then, as though chopped off with an ax, the town abruptly ended and open country stretched before their eyes. In front of him, Weiss saw the so beautiful motorcar—an unstable-looking, sand-scoured, ancient Renault. The man cranked it, proving either that the battery wasn't strong enough to turn the engine, or that the starter was out of order. Weiss wondered if anything else were out of commission.

The motor suddenly caught with a nerve-filing grind of bearings. Cars do not last long down there. Each wind raises clouds of fine sand and sweeps north from the father of sands; and sand is not good for bearings. As the machine wheezed off to a start in the direction of Sousse, it shuddered and clanked as though its heart had long since been eaten out by the grit and it was now running entirely by the will-power of the man who huddled behind the wheel.

Over the howl of worn parts, Weiss asked the driver how long it would take to reach Tunis. Then he remembered that he couldn't reply. The bar of language raised a new horror during the night ride. It was as though he were being driven by a ghost—a surly ghost that mumbled to itself in Arabic, and turned to look at him with light gray eyes that seemed like holes leading down into knowing darkness.

An hour out of town, Weiss looked back and cursed. Far behind, a pair of headlights bobbed up and down over the rough road, and moved forward even as they moved, so that an even distance was kept between them. He punched the driver in the shoulder and waved ahead, trying to indicate that he wanted more speed. The driver nodded, sank lower in his seat, and the pound and shriek of worn bearings reached a higher key.

The acceleration was too much. A final pound, as though the motor had kicked itself through the hood—and there was a silence that was startling after the noise of flight. Something had broken.

The driver got stolidly from his seat