Alec wondered why the pilot was flying so low … too low to make the cliffs ahead. Then he saw the opening through which the river passed, and the large bay beyond. The plane swooped through the break in the cliffs and swiftly descended toward the water. As the silver hull creased the bay, sheets of white foam again covered the window. Gradually, as the ship slowed, the window became clear and Alec could see the pier toward which they were taxiing. A short distance beyond was a low rambling building perched on many long poles, giving it the appearance of a giant centipede.

A little later, after having passed through customs, they were speeding toward the town of Port of Spain. The airline had provided two cars to take the passengers to the hotel and Alec was glad to note that Ibn al Khaldun was not in theirs. “He certainly is an unpleasant guy to have around,” he commented to Henry.

“Yeah, he’s not what you’d call sociable,” agreed Henry. “Tried to make conversation with him back there, but he wouldn’t have much of it.” He paused for a moment, pondered and then continued, “Funny, though, come to think of it. He knew an awful lot about me and the horses I’ve trained; he opened up a little when I mentioned Chang and the Derby back in ’32. He said he thought Prince Pat, the young colt I told you about who fell in his second race and had to be done away with, was a better horse than Chang and the fastest horse I’d ever had. Funny thing about that is I thought so, too, but never mentioned it; furthermore, very few people ever heard of Prince Pat as I hadn’t had him ready for big racing at the time of his accident. These Arabs are sure peculiar people.”

Early the next morning they were on their way again. Ibn al Khaldun, who the steward told them was also going to Arabia, had changed his seat for one nearer the front of the plane, claiming that riding near the tail made him ill. “Good riddance,” muttered Alec to himself.

Hour after hour the silver plane bucked the strong head winds which swept north up the coast of South America. They flew over dense green jungle country and Alec, looking down, wondered how they’d ever be found if the engines failed and they had to land. It was dark, unexplored country, alive with many terrors.

The sun passed overhead and descended rapidly in the west. Glancing at his watch, Alec found that it was after seven and realized that soon it would be dark. He looked ahead, hoping to see Natal, although he realized that they were not scheduled to arrive until after nine o’clock. Only a greenish-black carpet extended to the horizon. He let his head fall back on his seat and thought about Ibn al Khaldun. Funny he should know so much about Henry and American racehorses. Still, since he was an Arab, it was in all probability only natural that he should take an interest in American racing. He was an odd guy. Repulsive-looking, too, with his bald head and swarthy, fat face. Alec’s conscience bothered him as he remembered Ibn al Khaldun’s empty sleeve. It was tough to go through life handicapped that way. Perhaps he was mistaken about him. Perhaps it was just a case of not knowing him well enough. Still, there was something.…

The plane flew on, and eventually Alec’s thoughts turned from Ibn al Khaldun to the Black and the search ahead.