CHAPTER XVII
THE YELLOW ROBE
The man on the sand was silent, staring up at Gray in blank amazement. It was Delabar, thinner and more careworn than before. Shaven, all the lines of his face stood out, giving him the appearance of a skull over which yellow skin was stretched taut—a skull set with two smoldering, haggard eyes.
"Speak up, man," growled Gray. "And remember what I said about giving the alarm. I don't know if this costume is a masquerade or not, but—I can't afford to take chances this time."
Delabar did not meet his gaze. He lay back on the sand, fingers plucking at his thin lips.
"I can't speak," he responded hoarsely.
"You can. And you will. You'll tell me what I want to know—this time. You lied to me before. Now you'll deal a straight hand. This is not an idle threat. I must have information."
Delabar glanced at him fleetingly. Then looked around. No one was in sight, as they lay in a pocket in the sand.
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