Tangier.

Archie Gordon had not been invited to join the excursion into
the country, nor would he have accepted it, for he wished to
be by himself that he might review the situation and consider
what lay before him. He sat with his long legs dangling over
the broad rampart which overlooks the harbor of Tangier. He
was whistling meditatively to himself and beating an
accompaniment to the tune with his heels. At intervals he
ceased whistling while he placed a cigar between his teeth and
pulled upon it thoughtfully, resuming his tune again at the
point where it had been interrupted. Below him the waves ran
up lazily on the level beach and sank again, dragging the long
sea-weed with them, as they swept against the sharp rocks, and
exposed them for an instant, naked and glistening in the sun.
On either side of him the town stretched to meet the low,
white, sand-hills in a crescent of low, white houses pierced
by green minarets and royal palms. A warm sun had sent the
world to sleep at mid-day, and an enforced peace hung over the
glaring white town and the sparkling blue sea. Gordon blinked
at the glare, but his eyes showed no signs of drowsiness.
They were, on the contrary, awake to all that passed on the
high road behind him, and on the sandy beach at his feet,
while at the same time his mind was busily occupied in
reviewing what had occurred the day before, and in adjusting
new conditions. At the hotel he had found that the situation
was becoming too complicated, and that it was impossible to
feel sure of the truth of anything, or of the sincerity of
anyone. Since the luncheon hour the day before he had become
a fellow-conspirator with men who were as objectionable to him