On the eve of Danbazzar’s return, Barry ran into his acquaintance, the irrigation specialist, in the lounge of the hotel.

“Hullo!” said that chronically bored person, dropping into a neighbouring armchair. “I’ve only just come in from Assouan, but I heard you were back. How’s the oasis lookin’?”

“Splendid,” Barry returned hastily, hoping that the other had forgotten about the dates. “Dry Martini?”

“Thanks,” was the reply. “Rumour has it that a charmin’ stranger has joined your party.”

“Oh!” said Barry. “With which of her many tongues did Rumour whisper this news?”

“Tawwab,” drawled the tired voice. “Nasty bit of work. Know him?”

Barry nodded.

“I have that misfortune.”

He experienced a vague uneasiness. To the best of his knowledge, Mr. Tawwab’s hold upon them was no more. But the man’s insatiable appetite for bakhshish on a grand scale might inspire him to some new piece of interference. He wished Danbazzar were back.

Zalithea was dining downstairs to-night. It would be the first time she had appeared in public unveiled. Barry had reserved a discreet table, and when he had left Zalithea to dress, she had been wild with excitement. A French chambermaid had been detailed to assist. Inexplicably, the hotel seemed to have become filled up. The lounge was crowded. A number of visitors had arrived during the afternoon. He hoped Mr. Tawwab was not present.

“Our guest is the daughter of a friend of Danbazzar’s,” he explained. “Professor Blackwell is treating her for nerve trouble.”

“I see,” murmured the irrigator, sipping his drink and lighting a cigarette. “Danbazzar is the sportsman like a Moorish pirate?”

“Yes!” said Barry, laughing.

“Saw him when you were here before. Extraordinary lookin’ bird. Do you grow ’em like that in America?”

“Not in large quantities.”

“Rara avis, eh? Tawwab was tellin’ me your girl friend only speaks Kabyle. As I don’t know whether Kabyle is a vegetable or an ointment I ain’t any wiser.”

“It would be quite a good thing if Tawwab attended to his own business, don’t you think?”

“Rather. It’d choke him—which would be toppin’.”

John Cumberland and Professor Blackwell came down shortly afterward, and the bored young man went off to join a friend who was dining with him. While they waited for Zalithea, Barry related what he had heard.

“Mr. Tawwab is a subject who was born to be poisoned,” said the Professor. “I shall feel altogether more at ease when I find myself outside his sphere of influence.”

“It’s disturbing,” muttered John Cumberland. “I fear he’s up to fresh mischief. He hadn’t counted on our slipping away so soon and covering our tracks. He probably considers we have bested him.” He broke of, staring. “By Jove!” he exclaimed. “Barry! Did we dream it all? Look at her!”

Zalithea had just come into the lounge, cynosure of many eyes. She was a radiant vision in a zephyr-like Paris model. Whom John Cumberland had commissioned to buy it and what he had paid for it only John Cumberland knew. But he was satisfied. Marie, the chambermaid, had done her work well. As they made their way to the table, soft music of an orchestra stole through the hubbub. Barry thought that the lovely girl beside him whose eyes were lighted up happily must have heard other music and witnessed stranger banquets on this very spot… three thousand years ago!

That uncomfortable sense of unreality, a sort of veil through which he saw and heard imperfectly, descended upon Barry during the early stages of dinner. The irrigation man and his friend sat quite near and were at no pains to hide their admiration of Zalithea.

In fact, it gradually became apparent that the beautiful unknown was being widely discussed. Barry wondered if the story of the sheik’s daughter had spread farther than they supposed. He began to cast off the Old Man of the Sea astride his shoulders—to disregard the inner voice which whispered—whispered: “Yes, she looks young and lovely. But you saw her in the tomb. You know she is the oldest woman who has ever lived.”

He was fully and finally aroused by a waiter who handed him a folded note. It was from the young man at the near-by table, and it read:

“Where can I take lessons in Kabyle?”

The smiling impudence of his acquaintance appealed to Barry’s sense of humour. He showed the note to John Cumberland and the Professor. Zalithea, while they read it, touched Barry’s arm, and:

“Fo-ah me?” she said.

He laughed outright.

“Yes!” he nodded.

Zalithea held out her hand for the note. Professor Blackwell passed it to her. And she studied it gravely. It was at this moment that a high-pitched feminine voice made itself audible above the other voices.

“I really must just say how d’you do!”

John Cumberland started and looked over his shoulder. A very smart, hard-faced woman was making for their table. She seemed to be possessed of volcanic energy, and:

“Holy Mike!” said he. “Mrs. Uffington!”

“What!” Barry muttered, and glanced in the same direction. “Good Lord! All New York will have the story now!”

Indeed, it was the famous Mrs. Uffington, most intrepid of lion hunters: according to Jim Sakers, “The pride of Pierre’s and uncrowned Pope of Park Avenue.”

She swooped down upon them. Zalithea, dropping the note, fixed a stare of cold hostility upon the face of the newcomer.

“My dear John Cumberland!” she cried; “and if it isn’t our very own Professor and Barry!”

They rose to greet her—without enthusiasm.

“I know all about you!” she ran on vivaciously. “John Cumberland, I know all about you! What will Micky Colonna say? But, my dear—she’s lovely! I can’t believe she’s a coloured girl—can’t believe it!”

“Princess Zalithea is a member of a very old and distinguished family,” said Barry coldly. “Allow me to present you.” He bowed to the girl. “Mrs. Dudley Uffington.”

Zalithea did not move. Her unwavering stare never left Mrs. Uffington’s face. It had an oddly quelling effect.

“She’s rather queer, isn’t she?” asked the lady, in a lower tone.

“She doesn’t speak English,” Professor Blackwell explained.

“No! I was forgetting. But of course I have heard all about it. Do you know who told me? Mr. Ahmed Tawwab—such a charming man, for an Egyptian. He is looking in later, and I must really insist that you and your delightful—protégée—join us for coffee. I shall expect you!”

And she was off.

“Phew!” said John Cumberland. “Here’s a mess!”

“Since she finds Tawwab so charming,” murmured the Professor, “I sincerely wish she would marry him—and settle here.”

Zalithea, through half-closed eyes, watched the retreating figure.

“Hafee!” she hissed—or that was how it sounded.

Barry began to laugh.

“I find I am learning Ancient Egyptian!” he said. “You may be amused to know that, to the best of my knowledge, hafee means ‘snake’!”

“Really!” said Professor Blackwell, glancing uneasily at the malignant face of Zalithea. “It occurs to me that our foster child can be definitely unpleasant. She should prove a revelation to the drawing rooms of New York. Dear me, it’s all very extraordinary.”

Any plans they may have had to evade the subsequent meeting were frustrated by the energetic Mrs. Uffington. She had a table waiting, with coffee, liqueurs, and cigarettes, outside, after dinner. She swept them to it. And as they entered the palm-screened alcove in which it was situated, Mr. Tawwab rose to greet them, bowing deeply. He was accompanied by a lean, square-jawed man having small, fierce eyes, a bristling moustache, and very large prominent teeth. He resembled a mad horse.

He was presented as Captain Quick.

Zalithea, trailing a light wrap, seated herself disdainfully on the very edge of a tall chair, staring straight into the eyes of the two men in turn as they were introduced, but giving not the slightest sign of acknowledgment. Mr. Tawwab appraised her, critically and ravenously. Captain Quick burst at once into a shouted conversation.

“This is amazing!” he cried. “Positively! Never would have believed you come from the Senussi country! Never! Was down there in ’nineteen. What’s your part?”

Mr. Tawwab exchanged a swift, malicious glance with Mrs. Uffington. John Cumberland looked helplessly at Barry. Zalithea stared at the speaker as though she had not heard him. It was Professor Blackwell, husky in his embarrassment, who explained:

“Our friend does not speak English, sir.”

“Oh, damn it! What a fool I am!” yelled Captain Quick. “Wait a minute! Wait a minute! I know the lingo.…”

Zalithea stood up, leaving her wrap on the arm of the chair.

“Bahree!” she said—and pointed to it.

Then, without so much as a glance at any of the party, she walked slowly, languidly, out of the alcove.

“Excuse me!” Barry mumbled.

He had flushed to the roots of his hair. Grabbing the wrap, he ran after the girl.

Zalithea, moving with an unfamiliar, swaying movement of the hips which he had always imagined characteristic of the women figured on the ancient wall paintings, was making for the entrance.

He came up with her, but she did not pause or glance aside. The night was perfect, and there were groups assembled before the hotel: visitors, residents, vendors of many wares, and guides clamouring to conduct somebody, anybody, to the Great Temple by moonlight.

Barry was longing to walk through those mighty halls with Zalithea, but—incredible thought!—they had feared the memories which sight of that stately ruin might arouse in the girl. Karnak she had seen. And Barry could never forget her expression, in which sorrow, stupefaction, and horror had mingled. She had retired to her apartment, refusing to see anybody for a whole day afterward.

How he longed to be able to talk to her! If his own brain became so tumultuous when he thought of the history of this lovely, wayward, yielding, imperious girl, what deathly terrors must she know when realization of the truth was borne home to her?

Side by side they walked on through the scented night. He placed the wrap over her shoulders. She was following her favourite route—that to the ancient shadûf.

And so, presently, in silence, they were alone beside the Nile. Zalithea paused, resting against a crumbling wall and staring out over the whispering water. A boatman began to play a reed pipe. He played that age-old melody which surely the boatmen of Seti knew. Barry glanced at Zalithea. She was listening—intently.

Her lips were slightly parted, her lashes drooped. She looked beautiful. But—perhaps because of the Egyptian night and the music of the reed—she seemed unearthly.

A cold hand clutched his heart. Princess Zalithea! He was alone with a ghost!

She knew that music! What was she thinking? Whom was she remembering? Did it bring dreams of happiness—of love? Or did it magically cast her spirit back over the ages to the coming of that unnatural sleep?

Zalithea sighed, shudderingly. Turning, she put her hand in his.

Her hand was warm. The little slender fingers clung tremulously. At their touch, his ghostly imaginings fled. She was real, a girl of flesh and blood; not a phantom, but a living, lovely testimony to the wisdom of a past science. If only he could get used to that idea!

In silence, as they had come, they walked back; like two children, hand in hand. And standing in the entrance to the hotel were Mr. Tawwab and Danbazzar.

“I am most indebted to His Excellency,” boomed the latter’s great voice, “for this offer of his service. But the lady has been entrusted to me by her father, and I have just left the American Consul——”

“H’m,” murmured Mr. Tawwab, his sly eyes lighting up as he saw the slender, approaching figure; “you have seen him to-night?”

“Sure,” said Danbazzar. “All’s clear. A few formalities in the morning, that’s all.”

“But,” Mr. Tawwab interpolated gently, “as the young lady belongs to El-Kasr, you tell me, this matter does not concern your consul. El-Kasr is in the mudiriya of Minia!”

“I’ve seen the Mudîr of Minia, sir!” Danbazzar replied. “I arrived in Minia last night. That’s where I’ve come from. Believe me, I know the ropes of your country, Mr. Tawwab, although I’m greatly obliged to you. Our consul has got to give me a visé for the United States, that’s all. I’ve arranged the rest.”

“The Mudîr of Minia is very obliging.”

“Most obliging man in Egypt, bar none!” boomed Danbazzar. “Always was an obliging man.”

Zalithea passed in to the hotel, Barry following. From a hidden bench a slim, black-robed figure arose, bowing low.

“Lêltak sa’îda, effendim,” said a soft voice.

Barry started, peering into the shadows; then:

“Lêltak sa’îda, Hassan es-Sugra!” he replied.

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