For though the bazaars knew
nothing of the thief's identity and it was reported he had escaped
by the river yet McLean felt the sinister finger of suspicion. If
the thief had not been a thief--unless of brides!--and if he had
_not_ escaped--?
Impatiently the young Scotchman clapped his heels against the
donkey's sides, enhancing the efforts of the runner with the
gesticulating stick.
Suppose, now, that he should not find Jack at the excavations?
It was encouraging, somehow, to hear the monotonous rise and fall of
the labor song proceeding as usual, although McLean immediately told
himself that the work would naturally be going on under Thatcher's
direction whether Ryder were there or not. The camp knew nothing of
Cairo. The camp would be as usual.
And yet, after his first moment's survey, he had an indefinite but
uneasy idea that the camp was not as usual.
True, the tatterdemalion frieze of basket bearers still wove its
rhythmic way over the mounds to the siftings where Thatcher was
presiding as was his wont, but in the native part of the encampment
there appeared a sly stir and excitement.
The unoccupied, of all ages and sexes, that usually were squatting
interminably about some fire or sleeping like mummies in
hermetically wrapped black mantles, now were gathered in little
whispering knots whose backward glances betrayed a sense of
uneasiness, and as McLean rode past, a young Arab who had been the
center of attention drew back with such carefulness to escape
observation that McLean's shrewd eyes marked him closely.
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