The left, then, was the way to the haremlik.  And somewhere in those secluded rooms, to which no man but the owner of the palace ever gained admission, was Aimee.

The Soudanese mounted the stairs before them and held open a door into a long drawing-room from which the pasha’s modernity had stripped every charm except the color of some worn old rugs; the windows were draped in European style, the walls exhibited paper instead of paneling; in one corner was a Victrola and in another, beside a lounge chair, stood a table littered with cigarette trays and French novels with explicit titles.

The only Egyptian touch to the place was four enormous oil portraits of pompous turbaned gentlemen, in one of whom Ryder recognized the familiar rotundity of Mahomet Ali in his grand robes.

As a pasha’s palace it was a blow, and Ryder’s vague, romantic notions of high halls and gilded arches, suffered a collapse.

Tewfick Pasha came in with haste.  He had been going out when these callers were announced and he was dressed for parade, in a very light, very tight suit, gardenia in his button-hole, cane in his gloved hands, fez upon his head.  For all their smiling welcome, his full, dark eyes were uneasy.

He had grown distrustful of surprises.

It was McLean’s affair to reassure him.  Far from fulminating any accusations the canny Scot announced himself as the bearer of glad tidings.  A fortune, he announced, was coming to the pasha—­or to the pasha’s family.  A very rich old woman in France had decided to change her will.

There he paused and the pasha continued to smile non-committally, but the word fortune was operating.  In the back of his mind he was hastily trying to think of rich old women in France who might change their wills.

“I am afraid that it is my stupidity which has kept you from the knowledge of this for some weeks,” McLean went on.  “I had so many other matters to look up that I did not at once consult my records.  And it has been so many years since you married Madame Delcasse that the name had slipped general recollection....  It was twelve years ago, I believe, that she died?”

Casually he waited and Jack Ryder held his breath.  He felt the full suspense of a pause long enough for the pasha’s thoughts to dart down several avenues and back.  If the man should deny it!  But why should he?  What harm in the admission, after all these years, with Madame Delcasse dead and buried?  And with a fortune involved in the admission.

The Turk bowed and Ryder breathed again.

“Ten years,” said Tewfick softly.

“Ah—­ten.  But there has been no communication with France for twelve years or even longer?”

“Possibly not, monsieur.”

“This old aunt,” pursued McLean, “was a person of prejudice as well as fortune—­hence it has taken a little time for her to adjust herself.”  He paused and looked understandingly at the Turk, who nodded amiably as one whose comprehension met him more than half way.