H. Bedford-Jones

“ A slave brought wine. Barbarroja twice drained a goblet, then sighed contentedly.
“You should have stayed with me.” He grinned at his host. “You lost money, caballero! That is what comes of running after women. As it is, the reward is mine.”
“Reward!” Gholam Mahmoud started. “Then—Mulai Ali—”
“Is dead.”
Barbarroja twirled his mustache grandly. ”

“ Garbed in clean linen, Shaw was conducted to the private quarters of the governor, whom he found alone. While a bountiful repast was served, the two fell to discussing affairs in Morocco. The governor was certain that once Mulai Ali could get into the country his star would quickly blaze above that of his cousin Abdallah.
“All men turn to the new master,” he said sagely, stroking his white beard with his left hand, while his right plunged into the food. “El Magrib is ripe for revolt—but Abdallah is strong, and stronger yet is Ripperda, in whose hands is the power.” ”

“ Shaw, unable to bear the suspense, reached out for the paper, but the Moor hastily tore it across.
“Catch Ripperda when he comes!” exclaimed Dr. Shaw swiftly. “You see your chance? Catch him at the city gates, capture him, raise the flag of Mulai Ali—”
The old Moor turned, lifted his head, regarded Shaw steadily.
“Ali,” he said slowly, “is dead. The red-beard has done his work. The troops reached the place too late—Ali had been stricken by a bullet.”
Shaw quivered under the blow. Then, silently, he resumed his seat and folded his hands on the table. Mulai Ali dead! Everything was lost. ”