But this was all the information which Calder could secure. "I too am
pledged to help Effendi Feversham," he said, but in vain. The Arab could
not speak, he could not so much as tell his name, and his companions
would not. Whatever those two men knew or suspected, they had no mind to
meddle in the matter themselves, and they clung consistently to a story
which absolved them from responsibility. Kinsmen of theirs in Korosko,
hearing that they were travelling to Assouan, had asked them to take
charge of the wounded man, who was a stranger to them, and they had
consented. Calder could get nothing more explicit from them than this
statement, however closely he questioned them. He had under his hand the
information which he desired, the news of Harry Feversham for which
Durrance asked by every mail, but it was hidden from him in a locked
book. He stood beside the helpless man upon the angareb. There he was,
eager enough to speak, but the extremity of weakness to which he had
sunk laid a finger upon his lips. All that Calder could do was to see
him safely bestowed within the hospital at Assouan. "Will he recover?"
Calder asked, and the doctors shook their heads in doubt.
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