“The Moving Finger,” which waits for no man, moved on. But Zalithea did not return. The police had relaxed their efforts. They had nothing to work upon. It was obviously impossible to place the hieratic letter in their hands. Nor did its arrival assist the investigations of the private agency employed by John Cumberland.

He allowed them to examine it, saying that the writing was believed to be in Princess Zalithea’s hand. They tried to trace the maker of the paper and of the envelope which had enclosed it, but failed. Their final effort was directed to the discovery of the messenger who had put the letter in the box. A reward of five thousand dollars was offered. No one claimed it.

During these anxious days, Barry had not neglected the house of Mr. Brown. In a despairing effort, he had had the history of this country home examined—in vain. The property had changed hands during his absence in Egypt, and little could be learned of the former owner or of his associates. Agents had handled the transactions in both cases. The housekeeper—once interviewed by Jim Sakers—could not be traced.

The nine days’ wonder lived its allotted span; and the world in general began to forget Princess Zalithea, who had flashed, a dazzling meteor, across the social sky of New York, and, like a meteor, had vanished.

But Barry did not forget. He was not of those who love and ride away. For him a dream had come true—a dream held like a crucifix through years of waiting. He had lived in a heaven of moments. He had been snatched back to earth. And he was lonely.

One faith he had. To this he remained true; it saved him from despair. Zalithea was alive; so was Safîyeh. Somewhere, they were together. And one day he would find them. Despite official evidence proving that no such persons had departed from the port of New York, a conviction was growing in his mind that Zalithea had returned to Egypt.

John Cumberland’s anxiety, divided from the first, began now to centre upon Barry. Professor Blackwell, feeling that he might hope to walk the streets again without being accosted by newspaper representatives, had returned to his usual quarters. And one evening the two old friends dined together at the University Club, to discuss the question of Barry’s welfare.

“Bob Sakers couldn’t join us for dinner,” said Cumberland, when the Professor arrived, “but he’s dropping in later.”

“Danbazzar is still away?”

“Yes,” John Cumberland nodded. “The publicity attaching to this unhappy affair came very near home, I think. His apartment is shut up. I shouldn’t wonder if he stays away for a long time.”

“Quite—quite,” murmured the Professor. “Of course, for my part, I confess I am floored. I don’t dare to think about it. The whole thing, from that unimaginable moment in the tomb up to the time that you received this incredible letter, often seems to me to be unreal—a nightmare.”

“Yes,” John Cumberland agreed, “it doesn’t seem real. But—” he sighed—“it has ruined Barry.”

“Poor boy—poor boy. She was very lovely, Cumberland.”

A long silence fell between them, until:

“Do you ever ask yourself,” said John Cumberland, “if she was—natural?”

“My dear fellow,” the Professor returned, “I have asked myself that question a hundred times! And I think it has been answered for us.”

“How? In what way?”

“By her disappearance.”

John Cumberland stared, and:

“I don’t think I follow,” he declared.

“If,” explained Professor Blackwell slowly, “Zalithea was supernatural, certainly Safîyeh was not. But Safîyeh disappeared with her!”

His friend considered the words for some time, and at last:

“I see the point,” he said. “It’s a new one, I admit.”

When, later, Jim Sakers’s father joined them, he put the case before him bluntly.

“This thing has knocked Barry sideways,” he told Robert Sakers. “In confidence, it’s touch and go. Blackwell will bear me out.”

“I have watched Barry,” the latter admitted; “and I am certain that he’s on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He is crazy to go back to Egypt, via London and Paris. We don’t hope that he will find the girl, Sakers; we don’t expect so much. But I am quite positive that the journey will save him. Now—he can’t go alone. It’s out of the question. Jim is his oldest friend, and you can very well spare him for a month or six weeks——”

“I’m not asking you to stand the damage, Sakers,” John Cumberland interrupted. “It wouldn’t be fair on top of the inconvenience of losing your right-hand man.”

“Leave that part out,” said Robert Sakers. “Let’s get down to dates.”

And as a result of the conference which followed, some ten days later Jim Sakers found himself, with Barry, bound for Europe. His profound and ceaseless amazement, expressed at great length, was an antidote to poor Barry’s melancholy—as it was designed to be.

New environment and the magic of sea breezes aided the cure; and after an idle week in London, during which Barry’s restlessness seemed to have abated in a measure, they crossed to Paris.

The faithful Jim cabled an enthusiastic report home; and perhaps Barry, by this time, had begun to realize that the journey was intended to be a “cure” and to reconcile his overwrought mind to the idea of resignation. But what he did not realize, what neither of them realized, was that they were helpless in the “moving row” of which old Omar spoke, and that they were being danced impotent toward that inevitable end designed by “the Master of the Show.”

Paris proved rather a setback. It provoked memories which brought about in Barry a relapse into melancholy. Jim worked like a Trojan to arouse him from his mournful apathy.

“Regard, oh, regard the glitter of the boulevard,” he invited, as they sat outside a popular café in the sunshine. “Unknown to the old folks at home, in their sleepy village adjacent to the delta of the Hudson——”

“The Hudson has no delta,” Barry murmured.

“Let that pass. But still unknown to them, whether they have a delta or not, here we sit sipping perfectly good wine at a price for which we could not obtain a cup of coffee in our little home town. Therefore, let us rejoice! And, lo! here come soldiers—complete with band! Let us cheer!”

A small party of infantry marched past, accompanied by a large band. Jim stood up, watching them enthusiastically and talking away all the time. Receiving no criticisms from Barry, he turned.

His flow of nonsense was checked.

Barry, pale as death, clutching the edge of the marble-topped table, was staring—staring—across the street, his ghastly features those of one who sees a ghost!

“Barry!” Jim gasped. “Barry!”

Barry did not stir. When he spoke his voice was a whisper.

“Jim,” he said, “I have seen her!”

“What!”

“She has just gone into the perfumers’ shop opposite.”

“Barry!” Jim grasped his shoulder. “Wake up, man! You are daydreaming.”

“Watch until she comes out,” the monotonous whisper went on. “Don’t let her see you, for God’s sake. But follow her, Jim—don’t lose sight of her—until you find out where she is living.”

“But, Barry,” Jim began, a note of profound anxiety in his voice, when:

“Quick! There she goes!” he was interrupted.

He looked across the street. He gasped audibly; then:

“Wait for me here!” he said tersely.

Zalithea, carrying a small parcel, had just come out of the shop and was walking away!

Jim Sakers experienced a sense of sudden acute exhilaration. The wildly unforeseen had happened! And at last he was going to be of real use to his friend! What it all meant was outside the province of his mental powers. Who this mysterious girl really was who had so hopelessly bewitched Barry he had never been able to understand. Nor could he comprehend how she could possibly have reached Paris without the knowledge of the American authorities.

But unmistakably it was Princess Zalithea and none other who walked along before him. Her lithe figure, her graceful carriage, the very turn of her head when she paused to look in a shop window were familiar to the man who had met her many times in New York.

From the crowded boulevard into which she had turned on coming out of the perfumers’ she entered a side street. Jim didn’t know the name either of the street or the boulevard. His bump of locality was low. But he knew that he wasn’t going to lose sight of her if he had to follow her around Paris all day!

He was turning a problem over in his mind as he tracked the trim, leisurely figure. What should he do if she saw him?

Zalithea came out onto another boulevard and waited at the corner of the street for a moment. Evidently she was going to cross. She did so, and Jim was delayed by the eccentric Paris traffic. When he finally ran over, for a moment he lost her. Then, just disappearing around the corner of the next street along, he saw the smart figure again.

He hurried to the spot, swung round the corner—and saw Zalithea entering a discreet-looking hotel on the same side. He was in the lobby a minute later—and she was talking to a clerk at the desk!

Jim turned his back and stared out into the street through the glass doors. The lobby was small. He could hear every word spoken at the desk. And what he heard gave him the crowning surprise of the morning.

“No, madam—” the clerk spoke perfect English—“no American mail has come in yet.”

“Thank you. If any comes later will you please send it right up?”

The speaker was Zalithea!

Astounded—thrown off his guard—Jim turned and met Zalithea face to face!

“Princess!” he said. “You remember me!”

The girl’s white teeth closed sharply on her lower lip. She nearly dropped the parcel she was carrying, but just managed to recover it. She flushed and as quickly paled. But she looked at him unflinchingly—and he knew her long, dark eyes.

“You have made a strange mistake,” she said, evenly. “I am not a princess and I don’t know you.”

Jim wondered if he were going mad. The clerk was watching him dubiously, so was a hall porter.

“But—” he floundered—“but——” The dark eyes remained fixed upon him inscrutably. “I’m sorry. Forgive me. But it’s miraculous.”

She turned and walked out of the lobby. Jim did not afterward remember having seen her leave. It was the scrutiny of the officials that brought him to his senses and sharpened his ready wits. He turned to the clerk, taking a card from his wallet. It was the card of a member of the agency recently employed by John Cumberland!

He tossed it on the desk, and:

“You no doubt wonder what I’m up to?” he said breezily. “There’s the answer!”

“Oh!” muttered the clerk, glancing at the name. “I see. But you were wrong, weren’t you?”

“I’m afraid so,” Jim confessed—“quite wrong!” He stared at a menu that chanced to lie near and learned that he was in the Hôtel Chatham. “Nothing for the Chatham to worry about!” he added reassuringly. “But I should like to make my apologies. We have a reputation, too!” He drew a pencil from his pocket. “What is the name of the lady I so unfortunately insulted?”

“She is a Miss Marguerite Devina of New Jersey, U.S.A.”

“Thanks,” said Jim, making a note of it. “Here alone?”

“Yes. I believe she is expecting relatives to-day.”

“Much obliged.”

Jim nodded in a brusque fashion based upon that of the lawful owner of the card and stepped out into the street.

The street gained, his assured manner deserted him. He was the most hopelessly bewildered American in Paris. What in the name of sanity should he tell Barry? That this was Princess Zalithea he would have been prepared to declare upon oath. Besides, good actress though he granted her to be, she had failed to hide her surprise at sight of him. He had seen her bite her lip—to check what? A sudden utterance of his name? Probably. Her changed colour, her trembling hands, proved that she had recognized him.

It was she. But what did it mean?

How could he face Barry with such a story?

Turning these problems over in his mind, he plodded back to the café. From afar he saw Barry—watching. At sight of Jim he jumped up and ran to meet him.

“Tell me!” he cried, his eyes feverishly bright. “Where does she live?”

“At the Hôtel Chatham.”

“Thank God! And she didn’t see you?”

“But she did!”

“What!”

“Come back and sit down, Barry,” Jim urged. “Get a grip on yourself. We’re together in this thing. Let me order you a glass of good cognac.”

“You’re hiding something!”

“I’ll give you the story word for word when you have sat down and had a drink and lighted your pipe. Not a damn’ syllable before!”

He had his way, for he could be very truculent at times; and poor Barry Cumberland was a parody of his old masterful self. So, while Barry smoked furiously the story was told—a stranger story than any Jim had ever expected to have to tell. In conclusion:

“If you are mad,” he said, “I’m mad, too! Because Miss Marguerite Devina is Princess Zalithea. But Princess Zalithea only spoke gazoobi or swahili—and Miss Devina speaks perfect English. Now search me! Garçon, deux cognacs!”

The chairs about them were becoming filled with loungers, as the day wore on to noon. A cosmopolitan crowd thronged the street and the neighbouring boulevard. Somewhere near by an orchestra had begun to play a melody very popular in New York. Newsboys shouted. Drivers of carts shouted. Everybody shouted.

But Barry was silent. At last:

“Well?” Jim inquired. “What do we do now?”

“I have just decided,” Barry replied quietly. “It will be best for you to stay where you are at the Meurice. We don’t want to frighten her. But I shall transfer to the Chatham, at once.”

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