He tried to read, but could not fix his mind upon the book. After he had reread one sentence half a dozen times without grasping its sense, he gave up; then he commenced to pace the floor, smoking one cigar after another. He was on the point of starting out himself to search when d'Arnot returned. Gregory looked at him eagerly.

D'Arnot shook his head. "No luck," he said. "I found a number of shop keepers who recalled seeing her, but none who knew when she left the bazaar."

"Where is Tarzan?" asked Gregory.

"He is investigating in the village. If the natives have any knowledge of her, Tarzan will get it out of them. He speaks their language in every sense of the term."

"Here he is now," said Gregory as the ape-man entered the room.

Both men looked up at him questioningly. "You didn't find any trace of her?" asked d'Arnot.

Tarzan shook his head. "None. In the jungle, I could have found her; but here--here, in civilization, a man cannot even find himself."

As he ceased speaking, a window pane crashed behind them; and a missile fell to the floor.

"Mon dieu!" cried d'Arnot. "What is that?"

"Look out!" cried Gregory. "It may be a bomb."

"No," said Tarzan, "it is just a note tied to a stone. Here, let's have a look at it."

"It must be about Helen," said Gregory, taking the note from Tarzan's hand. "Yes, it is. It's from her. Listen! 'Dear Dad: The people who are holding me want Brian's road map to Ashair. They threaten to take me into the interior and sell me if they don't get it. I believe they mean it. Tie the map to stone and throw it out window. Do not follow their messenger, or they will kill me. They promise to return me unharmed as soon as they get the map.' Yes, it's from Helen all right, it's her handwriting. But the fools! They could have had the map for the asking. I only want to find Brian. I'll get the map."

He rose and went into Helen's room, which adjoined his. They heard him strike a match to light a lamp, and then give vent to an exclamation of astonishment that brought the other two men into the room. Gregory was standing before the open upper drawer of the dresser, his face white.

"It's gone," he said. "Some one has stolen the map!"

Chapter 4

IN A SQUALID room, Wolff sat at a table laboriously wielding a pencil by the light of a kerosene lamp--evidently an unaccustomed task. Every time he made a mark, he wet the tip of the pencil on his tongue, which, in the interims, he chewed. At last his work was completed; and as he eyed it, not without pride, he heaved a sigh and rose.

"I guess this ain't a pretty night's work or anything!" he soliloquized complacently.