It was the high sign that in matters of terrible vengeance the Black Hand never m.u.f.fs.

"Gott in Himmel!" he snarled under his breath. "Joost wait teel da padrone, da boss, de beega da fel' geet back! You catcha sometang. See like maybe you, sapristi, don't!"

Despite his feelings, however, he hot-footed a return with the cigarettes and it was to be noticed that when he bowed low and handed them to her he said:

"Here, Queen."

Well aware was he that he would remember that hatpin at meals for days to come and, expert chef that he was, he regarded with horror the idea of a future in which he would figure as Spaghetti enbrochette.

But--aha! let the big fellow handle her! The padrone, the grand demon, him, the goldo fellow, Monseigneur, he'd mighty quick show her who was the real frito misto of that establishment!

Though why in the world the boss wanted to dally with a _donna_ that looked and acted more like _wallyo_, presented a mystery Spaghetti sadly admitted to himself was too much for him to un-ravioli. So he stirred himself in her behalf for the nonce and fetched her some _cous cous_ into which he let go the red pepper with a lavish, fine Italian hand.

For if she strangled to death he could always pretend he had got mixed and thought it was the cinnamon.

CHAPTER VII

What Spaghetti was wishing for Verbeena was wondering concerning.

Whereabouts now was this bold devil, Amut? And when would he be home?

To be sure, Spaghetti had said, she sort of remembered, that the Sheik would be home for dinner and that he ate at eight. But he might come in any old time and surprise her. For, cogently considered, wouldn't that be just like him? That he was a nasty feller, how could she doubt it? Of the Machiavellian character of the black-whiskered, tow-headed mazib hadn't she right then sufficient evidence to swing any jury?

"Boo-hoo, Boo-hoo!" sobbed Verbeena entirely in the feminine gender.

But six or seven cigarettes, the knowledge of the hatpin stick beneath the left breast of her Norfolk jacket with the right hand fully informed about it and something else that she had up her sleeve (I can't tell you yet--no, really, honest, I can't, for it wouldn't be fair to Verbeena--might give her away in a critical moment) something else that she had up her sleeve rea.s.sured her mightily.

And if I could only tell you what she was thinking about doing just then! "Durn it!" your heart would surely go out to the cute bantam!

Gaw, bless her!

Remembering as well that Britains never shall be slaves!

And that, moreover, if you are not that kind of a girl and are truly indignant why then, my dear, your ship of Fate gathers no moral barnacles.

Although, of course, in the matter of just what kind of a girl Verbeena was, if any, a palpable ambiguousness veers to the verge of anguish.

But while this juncture is pending in which pa.s.sion is scheduled to bridle and burst into tongues of flame high as a gas tank in eruption, gave Verbeena a chance.

That is to look around Sheik Amut Ben Butler's wicked desert diggin's.

Huh--not that they were so much!

Some Oriental hangings showed up as if they were embroiderd by blacksmiths and colored by accident and chewed by rats.

There were two silver inlaid Moorish stools that would hold you if you were careful. There was a fine-looking, hand-carved chest, big and impressive, that Verbeena peeked into thinking it would reveal perhaps, wondrous stores of Bagdad lace curtains or--heaven alone could tell!--perhaps the corpse of his former victim!

She opened it and then shut it in a hurry. A person may fairly be curious. But not about somebody else's old shoes.

However, a splendid collection of ivory and silver and ivory and gold and ivory and bra.s.s and ivory and tin and ivory and goodness-knew-what cigarette cases, hit Verbeena right in the eye. She selected about sixteen she thought she might like and put them aside in one of her trunks to be called for later.

Should Amut miss 'em.

Although according to her designs, even if he did--even if he did----

Excuse me, for holding off a bit longer. No fault of the author truly.

He's coming is Amut. But you see he is doing a Sheridan on a flashing steed and is as yet several miles away. Two at least.

Just let him gallop a few minutes because Verbeena has started examining his book case and that if anything should tell her what kind of a bibliophile, Francophile or Swissoup this strong-armed philanderer was.

It was a surprise to Verbeena to find there this case of books for she had always thought that all to be expected of the Sahara was volumes of dates.

However, she stood corrected so she scanned the t.i.tles. At the very first she drew back with a shudder having read: "Poems of Pa.s.sion" by Ring Lardner.

Then "The Children's Hour" by Ghee de Maupa.s.sant.

Pshaw, she'd read that!

Kraft-Ebing also was old stuff.

And she pa.s.sed over without interest a corpulent tome ent.i.tled "Der Vaw; Vhy Ve Dit Id Bad" by Ludendorff.

Then she came upon "Manly Beauty, Its Dangers and Temptations," by Irvin Cobb and Paul Swan.

Two other t.i.tles, however, fascinated her. One was "Florinda of the Furnished Rooms" by Robert W. Chalmers, and the other "Maurice of the Monkey Glands" by Elinor Flynn in collaboration with the author of "Arzan of the Apes."

"Eeny, meeny, minee, mo--" began Verbeena when another t.i.tle clattered against her vision. "The Pa.s.sion Worm of the Sahara, an Account of its Discovery," by Robert S. Hitchings.

At first she derived about ten degrees of comfort from the discovery that Amut wasn't exactly a raw native, that he was probably half-baked at least. She felt that it would be logically safe to presuppose that she was mixed up with a king of the desert, who might be found to be superficially coated with a veneer of civilization that was tenuous.

And yet dared she find comfort in that? Might it not make him the more horrible, sinister, intolerable, cheekier and fresher than ever, this desert devil in whom pa.s.sion dictated the methods of a chiropract.i.tioner?

"O, hum!" screamed the distrait and fearful Verbeena doing a backfall among the cushions.

There was one good thing she could say for him anyway--his cigarettes were smokable. They were, she had seen by the boxes, of the famous brand of Bull Camel.

Of one thing she was convinced. There would be no sandbagging this evening.

[Ill.u.s.tration: SPAGHETTI.]

She had reduced Spaghetti to where she had only to show him the hat pin and he would run right out and sit in the sand. She had made him produce the sand-bag too, had ripped it open and poured the contents back into the desert.

Also she had asked Spaghetti numerous questions about the Sheik Amut and as far as she could make out his chief business was that of a breeder, trainer and trapper of horses of a high-cla.s.s character.

Nothing in the trucking way but mostly for society and circus uses.

The business of _femme_-_s.n.a.t.c.hing_, her informant had a.s.sured her, was totally new to him.