"You understand English?" said Calder.
The Arab could not answer with his lips, but a look of comprehension
came into his face.
"Where do you come from?" asked Calder.
The lips tried to move, but not so much as a whisper escaped from them.
Yet his eyes spoke, but spoke vainly. For the most which they could tell
was a great eagerness to answer. Calder dropped upon his knee close by
the man's head and, holding the lantern close, enunciated the towns.
"From Dongola?"
No gleam in the Arab's eyes responded to that name.
"From Metemneh? From Berber? From Omdurman? Ah!"
The Arab answered to that word. He closed his eyelids. Calder went on
still more eagerly.
"You were wounded there? No. Where then? At Berber? Yes. You were in
prison at Omdurman and escaped? No. Yet you were wounded."
Calder sank back upon his knee and reflected. His reflections roused in
him some excitement. He bent down to the Arab's ear and spoke in a lower
key.
"You were helping some one to escape? Yes. Who? El Kaimakam Trench? No."
He mentioned the names of other white captives in Omdurman, and to each
name the Arab's eyes answered "No." "It was Effendi Feversham, then?"
he said, and the eyes assented as clearly as though the lips had spoken.
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