This was lucky, because, if the
man were on the alert, and knew where Nevill lived, he would have no
reason to suppose they took this direction on his account.
But he had not gone a quarter of a mile when he stopped, and rang at a
gate in a high white wall.
"Djenan el Taleb," mumbled Nevill. "Perhaps Si Maieddine's visiting
there--or else this old beggar is."
"Is it an Arab's house?" Stephen wanted to know.
"Was once--long ago as pirate days. Now a Frenchman owns it--Monsieur de
Mora--friend of the Governor's. Always puts up several chiefs at the
time of the ball."
The gate opened to let the caid in and was shut again.
"Hurrah!--just thought of a plan," exclaimed Nevill. "I don't think De
Mora can have got home yet from the palace. I saw him having supper.
Suppose I dart back, flutter gracefully round him, babble 'tile talk' a
bit--he's a tile expert after my own heart--then casually ask what Arabs
he's got staying with him. If Maieddine's in his house it can't be a
secret--incidentally I may find out where the fellow comes from and
where he's going."
"Good!" said Stephen. "I'll hang about in the shadow of some tree and
glue my eye to this gate. Is there any other way out?"
"There is; but not one a visitor would be likely to take, especially if
he didn't want to be seen. It opens into a street where a lot of people
might be standing to peer into the palace grounds and hear the music.
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