“Jim,” said Barry miserably, “what else can I do?”

“Well,” Jim replied, thoughtfully rapping on the café table to attract the waiter’s attention, “you can order another half bottle of this very good wine, and then perhaps ideas may come.”

The order given:

“It’s Kismet,” Barry went on. “If she had confessed to murder I should still have wanted her! In fact, mad as it may seem, I love her better, now, knowing her to be what she is, than I did before.”

“Not mad in the least,” Jim commented. “Taking into consideration the way she was brought up, I, myself, harsh though my judgments of frail humanity notoriously are, should feel the same. I could both love and respect the Marguerite who wrote that brave letter. I don’t think I could ever have worked up any real enthusiasm for a living mummy.”

“I know,” said Barry emphatically, “that one day I shall find her again. When I do, I’m going to marry her if she’ll have me!”

“Strong, sound sentiments,” Jim replied. “It is men such as you are who make men such as I am love men such as you are! But the old problem arises; your father.”

“I have made up my mind on that point,” Barry declared. “He must not know—yet. It’s hateful, but I mustn’t shatter his illusion. I shall write and tell him I have met the girl of the balcony, and that she is the double of Zalithea—and the daughter of Devina. Those who knew Zalithea will soon forget the resemblance when they hear Marguerite speak. Then, one day, he shall know the truth. Nobody else must ever know.”

“We shall have to lie like the Brothers Ananias,” said Jim sadly, “for a time. This prospect appalls my proudly virtuous spirit. But it’s up to you. What you say, goes. Meanwhile, a full week has elapsed and our patient inquiries have merely yielded, No, sir. Shall you go on advertising in the Paris papers?”

“Yes,” was the answer. “My advertisement means nothing to anyone else. It might as well stand. Who knows?”

“Nobody knows,” Jim murmured. “It is ignorance and not knowledge which makes us lose faith in Santa Claus. And this afternoon? Shall I scour the district in and about Batignolles as you so kindly suggest?”

“Jim, you’re a brick! This ‘scouring’ is no sort of way to enjoy a holiday in Paris. Just say you’re tired, and I’ll do that part myself to-morrow.”

“No, no, Horatio. Batignolles appeals to me because I can’t pronounce it. And have I not said many times that I long for the life of a detective? ‘All forms of shadowing undertaken. Your pay roll guarded by machine-gun experts (in uniform). Missing relatives traced by our special staff of lady searchers. Our watchword——’ ”

“Jim! I love you, but——”

“Guilty! Dismiss the jury. We reassemble at the Chatham at six for cocktails.”

And so the quest went on. Barry had in mind a neighbourhood he had noted during a drive on the outskirts near the old fortifications. Here were discreet villas sheltering behind little gardens which, like the yashmak of a Turkish beauty, merely provoked without concealing. He felt sure that the house he sought would have a garden.

Barry had considered the idea of engaging a detective agency to trace Zalithea, so strangely found only to be lost again. But, in the circumstances, he had decided that to do so would be unwise.

Marguerite’s letter he almost knew by heart. At first, the shock of it had stunned him. The readjustment of perspectives which it entailed appalled his brain. But out of all the chaos one fact emerged—a fact brooking no denial. He loved her. He could not imagine life without her.

His eagerness was eternally conjuring up mirages. A group at a café table would suddenly come into view—and she was there. As he drew nearer, all resemblance would disappear. He hated those unconscious mimics, some of whom were astoundingly unlike Marguerite at close quarters. Perfumery stores he unfailingly explored. And a hundred times he had run like a madman to overtake some girl seen in the distance—only to alarm a stranger.

More than one gendarme had eyed him with suspicion. A tall, distinguished-looking old gentleman, wearing the ribbon of the Legion and escorting a very pretty girl whose figure and carriage certainly resembled those of Marguerite, demanded the name of his hotel and promised to send his seconds to Barry in the morning.

And now he was on the outskirts of the woods. Just ahead lay the group of villas which had attracted his attention on the previous day. He proposed to pursue a plan adopted on other occasions: viz.—to call at a likely-looking house and ask if Miss Devina and her father were at home. Being assured that he had come to the wrong address, he could inquire if two Americans resided anywhere in the vicinity.

Following an unseasonably hot morning, clouds had begun to gather shortly after noon. Now, it was growing very dark. The woods on his right were haunted by ghostly shadows. From somewhere beyond the western outskirts of Paris echoed ominous rumblings, to remind good Parisians of that black day when Von Kluck’s Prussians came hammering at their gates.

Then, suddenly, the downpour started. In sight of a charming little villa whose green shutters and green balconies were visible above a guardian row of dwarf acacias, Barry darted to cover. His back against the trunk of a tree the dense foliage of which promised shelter, he stood, looking up.

A black thunder pall hung directly above. Except for the sound of falling rain, a profound stillness had come. Then, blindingly, lightning flicked its venomous fang from the heart of the cloud. The house opposite was illuminated ice blue, eerily. Every leaf upon the trees was lent a momentary hard, individual existence. Every nail in the woodwork of the villa gate, every piece of gravel on the garden paths, summoned attention vividly, alone, aloof from the rest.…

And a window directly facing the tree beneath which Barry stood was thrown open.

Marguerite came out onto the green balcony!

Her lips were parted in a half-frightened smile. Exultant, like a roll of Titanic war drums, thunder crashed and boomed and beat out its fury in dying echoes.

Across the feathery crests of the acacias their glances met.…

Barry uttered an involuntary cry. The storm was forgotten. The world was forgotten. Out into the drenching downpour he ran, across to the gate and on, up the gravelled path, to the discreet, glazed door. She had fled at sight of him. The balcony above was empty; but the window remained open.

He rang, but without result. He rang again—and again—and again. He rang continuously.

The door was opened.

And he found himself looking into a wrinkled Arab face.

“Safîyeh!” he exclaimed.

She smiled, unsurprisedly, and stood aside to allow him to enter.

He discovered himself in a little lobby furnished throughout in Egyptian fashion. There were antique tables and figures of the gods of the Nile. There was a fresco of subjects from Der-el-Bahari. A perforated silver lamp hung from the ceiling. And the air was laden with a faint perfume, the indescribable smell of Egypt.

Safîyeh raised a tapestry curtain and again stood aside. Barry went into the room beyond.

This apartment was littered with every imaginable kind of relic, from exquisite enamel necklaces to mummied cats. At sight of the treasures contained there, Barry was transported in spirit to a similar room high above the turmoil of New York, where once he had sat in conference with Horace Pain, Dr. Rittenburg, and others.

Leaning upon a mantelpiece composed of carved red granite fragments adapted to the purpose was a tall man, the collar of whose white shirt fell open at the neck, while the sleeves were rolled up on muscular arms. One elbow rested on the ledge; the clenched fist supported a handsome, leonine head. A scarab ring glittered on his finger, as, raising the other hand to remove a cigar which he was smoking, he bowed in courteous greeting.

“Danbazzar!” cried Barry.

A roll of distant thunder from the moving storm echoed and reëchoed over Paris.

“Paul Ahmes, at your service, sir!” Danbazzar corrected him. “But the former, if you prefer it. One’s as much mine as the other! Sit down and let’s talk this thing over.”

Fascinated against his will, as he had always been fascinated by this man’s extraordinary personality, Barry dropped onto a divan, silenced—stupefied—by the entire self-possession of the speaker. Here was no recognition of wrongdoing; this was not a detected impostor; this was the masterful man to whom obstacles were merely stepping stones, who was fearless as he was unscrupulous. This was Danbazzar.

“Margot told me what she had said in her letter,” he went on. “I agreed. Get that clear. She did nothing behind my back. What she wants goes with me, and she wanted you to know the truth. You’d never have known if you hadn’t followed her to Paris. But I’m not sorry, anyway. I have retired from business. Zalithea was my last deal. I regretted it long before the end came, because I found out that John Cumberland was white clean through. So, listen. Tell him if you like. I’ll hand you a complete list of all the stuff he’s got that isn’t right, and he can sell it back to me for just what he paid. I’m not playing tin angels: I’ve got a market for it at big profit!”

Barry was unable to restrain a smile.

“If you ask me,” Danbazzar added, “he’d be happier left alone. But do as you damn’ please. There’s no committee of experts in the world would say any piece from my workshop was faked—and you can lay your last dollar I’m not going to say it! As for the job at the tomb—we’re all in the dock together. Pirates can’t afford to quarrel! And now I’m going to talk to you about Margot. I’m going to talk straight, and I expect you to talk straight.…”

He talked, and talked straight, for the better part of an hour. He displayed a side of his complex, twisted character, that Barry had never suspected to exist. And, at one point, when he spoke of Marguerite’s remorse for the part she had played, the words of Hassan es-Sugra recurred to Barry: “Be not angry with her.” Finally:

“Now we’ve got it all set,” said Danbazzar. “I’ve quit the United States for keeps. You know where I stand. We’re agreed about the bunch in New York. And I know where you stand. Settle the rest with the kid.”

He walked out of the room, stately, unperturbed; the Great Ahmes, master of the situation. Barry stood up. Suddenly, he had grown appallingly nervous. He paced up and down once or twice, among those priceless relics of an age whose loves and hates were forgotten before Paris arose from the forests. On one long, low wall, Pharaohs, gods, and goddesses made mysterious signs to one another, signalling: It was so in our day; it is so in this.

The rustle of the tapestry portière told him to turn.

He faced Marguerite.…

She stood on the threshold watching him. Her long dark eyes held the same expression as on that night when, unseen by Barry, she had stolen to the library door to take her last look at him.

Yet something else was there, and slowly she came forward to where he stood. When she was close to him:

“My darling!” he whispered.

His arms went around her very tightly but very gently—not as in that first fierce embrace. And when he kissed her it was a lingering tender kiss.

THE END

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