“It’s one of the most dreadful things I ever heard of,” Jinny murmured.  “On her wedding night....  And she was so young, Mr. McLean, and so exquisite.  She didn’t look like a real girl....  She was a fairy creature....  I never dreamed there really were rose-leaf skins before but hers was just like flower petals.  Jack and I talked about it, I remember.  And her face had something so bewitching about it, something so sweet and delicate—­”

She broke off revisited with that vision of Aimee’s sprite-like beauty....  How little that poor girl had thought, as she stood there in the bright splendor of her robes and diadem, that in a few hours more—­

“Oh, I hope that fire—­that it was merciful—­that she didn’t suffer,” she said almost inaudibly.

But speech itself was too definitive of horrors.

“It’s tragic,” she finished simply.

It was tragic, with a complicated tragedy, thought Andrew McLean as he stood there, his eyes narrowing, his lips compressed, his mind invaded with a dark swarm of conjecture, surmise, suspicion, his vision possessed by a flitting rush of pictures.

He saw Jack talking with the girl at the reception....  The girl showing him something about her neck—­that accursed locket, he thought acutely....  Jack sending Miss Jeffries home....  Had he arranged that purposely?  Was there some mad, improvised scheme of escape in the air?

The pictures became mere flitting wraiths of conjecture, yet touched with horrifying possibility....  Jack lingering, hiding....  Jack making love to the girl, attempting flight....  Jack discovered—­and the quick saber thrust—­for both.

A fire?...  Very likely—­to screen the darker tragedy.  Hamdi was capable of it to save his pride.  And it would dispose so easily of the—­evidence.

McLean’s thoughts flinched from the grim outcome of his fear.  He tried to tell himself that he was inventing horrors, that the fire might be the simple truth, that Ryder’s talk with the girl might actually have ended in farewell—­at least a temporary farewell—­and that his consequent low spirits had taken him off to mope in camp.

That was undoubtedly the thing to believe, at least until there was actual necessity to disbelieve it, and looking at the story in that way, McLean’s Scotch sense of Providence was capable of pointing out the stern benefits of the sad visitation.

Whatever mischief might have been afoot between his friend and that unfortunate young girl the fire had prevented.  And however hard Jack might take this now, decidedly the poor girl’s death was better for him than her life.

No more wasting himself now on sad romance and adventure.  No more desire and danger.  No more lurking about barred gates and secret doors and forbidden palaces.  No more clandestine trysts.  No more fury of mind, beating against the bars of fate.

Jack was saved.

Even if he had succeeded in rescuing the girl—­what then?  McLean was skeptical of felicity from such contrasting lives.  Better the finality, the sharp pain, the utter separation.  And then—­