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The night had fallen suddenly.

That night, as Lemaire and Bouvier were nearing the inn, riding slowly upon their mules, they heard before them in the darkness the angry snarling of a camel.

Almost immediately it died away.

“Madame has company,” said Bouvier. “There’s a customer at the Retour du Desert.”

“Some damned Arab!” said Lemaire. “Come for a coffee or a couscous. Much good that’ll do us!”

They rode on in silence. When they reached the inn, the road before it was empty.

“Mai foi,” said Bouvier. “Nobody here! The camel was getting up, then, and Madame is alone again.”

“Marie!” called Lemaire. “Marie! The absinthe!”

There was no reply.

“Marie! Nom d’un chien! Marie! The absinthe! Marie!”

He let his heavy body down from the mule.

“Where the devil is she? Marie! Marie!”

He went into the arbour, stumbled over something, and uttered a curse.

In reply to it there was a shrill and prolonged howl from the court.

“What is it? What’s the dog up to?” said Bouvier, whipping out his revolver and following Lemaire. “The table knocked over! What’s up? D’you think there’s anything wrong?”