“You imputed your own standards to me.  That’s all there is about it, I suppose,” she said in a scornful sadness.  He looked very miserable.  Compassion, and the old odd attraction which he had for her, stirred in her mind.  Her voice grew soft, and she held out her hand.  “I’m sorry too, very sorry, that it should have to be good-bye between us.”

Beaumaroy did not take her proffered hand, or even seem to notice it.  He stood quite still.

“I’m damned if I know what I’m to do now!”

Close on the heels of his despairing confession of helplessness—­for such it undoubtedly seemed to me—­came the noise of an opening door, a light from the inside of the Cottage, a patter of quick-moving feet on the flagged path that led to the garden gate.  The next moment Mary saw the figure of Mr. Saffron, in his old gray shawl, standing at the gate.  He was waving his right arm in an excited way, and his hand held a large sheet of paper.

“Hector!  Hector, my dear, dear boy!  The news has come at last.  You can be off tomorrow!”

Beaumaroy started violently, glanced at his old friend’s strange figure, glanced once, too, at Mary; the expression of utter despair which his face had worn seemed modified into one of humorous bewilderment.

“Yes, yes, you can start tomorrow for Morocco, my dear boy!” cried old Mr. Saffron.

Beaumaroy lifted his hat to her, cried, “I’m coming, sir!” turned on his heel, and strode quickly up to Mr. Saffron.  She watched him open the gate and take the old gentleman by the arm; she heard the murmur of his voice speaking soft accents as the pair walked up the path together.  They passed into the house, and the door was shut.

Mary stood where she was for a moment, then moved slowly, hesitatingly, yet as though under a lure which she could not resist.  Just outside the gate lay something that gleamed white through the darkness.  It was the sheet of paper.  Mr. Saffron had dropped it in his excitement, and Beaumaroy had not noticed.

Mary stole forward and picked it up stealthily; she was incapable of resisting her curiosity or even of stopping to think about her action.  She held it up to what light there was, and strained her eyes to examine it.  So far as she could see, it was covered with dots, dashes, lines, queerly drawn geometrical figures—­a mass of meaningless hieroglyphics.  She dropped it again where she had found it, and made off home with guilty swiftness.

Yes, there had been, this time, a distinctly metallic ring in old Mr. Saffron’s voice.

CHAPTER X

THE MAGICAL WORD MOROCCO!