It seemed to McLean that an angel from Heaven was revealing her blessed goodness.

Ryder took the revelation delightedly for granted.

“Bully for you, Jinny,” he said warmly.  “I knew I could count on you.”

If for one moment a twinge of wry reminder recalled that she had never been able exactly to count upon him it did not dim his mood.  He was alight with triumph.

“I’ll see to the transportation,” he said quickly, doing mental arithmetic about present sums in the bank.  “And we won’t wire your aunt until you’re safely out of Egypt—­better send a wireless from the ship.  I think your aunt is near Paris—­”

“We are going to hurry to Paris,” said Jinny, “That was our regular plan—­”

“And London?” said McLean.

“London, later, of course.  Cathedrals, lakes and universities—­then London.”

“I shall be in London,” said McLean thoughtfully, “in June....  If you are not too occupied—­”

“With cathedrals?” said Miss Jeffries.

“Where are the things?” demanded Ryder ruthlessly, and thus recalled, Jinny produced the bag.

McLean moved toward the door.  “We might go and mount guard in the corridor,” he suggested, and he and Jinny stepped outside, back into the everyday world of Egypt where nothing at all had been happening but the arrival of a caravan from the excavations.

Within the room Ryder stooped and lifted the girl from the case and set her lightly on the floor.  Ruefully she shook out the torn chiffons of that French audacity of a robe, and with a whimsical smile surveyed the soiled little slippers that she had discarded in her disguise when she had ridden behind the turbaned Ryder upon the Arab horse.

So little time ago, and yet so long away—­

Under her long lashes she looked up at the young man, who had set the old life crumbling about her at a touch.  Wistfulness edged the brave smile with which she murmured, “And so it is all arranged—­so quick.  I am safe—­I go to the hotel with that nice girl—­”

“And I won’t be able to see you,” he said suddenly.

“But you have seen me, monsieur, these many days—­”

“Seen you?  I haven’t seen you.  I’ve sat outside a tomb on guard, I’ve marched beside a mummy case—­and—­and we’ve said so little—­”

It was true.  They had said little.  The hours had been absorbed in action.  Their words had always been of explanation, of reassurance, of anxious planning.  Of the future, the future after safety had been achieved, they had said nothing.  It had all been uncertain, nebulous, vague....

And now it was upon them.

“And I have never said Thank you,” she murmured.  “I—­I think I began by saying Thank you, monsieur.  I remember saying that my education had proceeded to the Ts!”

“If—­if only you never want to unsay it,” he muttered.  “You don’t know what’s ahead—­life’s so uncertain—­”