“Well, well, well, what a pity now,” said McLean very slowly.  “This will be a great disappointment....  And so the present mademoiselle—­”

“Is my daughter.”

McLean was silent.  Ryder could hardly trust himself to speak.

“What did she die of?” he asked at last, in a voice whose edged quality brought the pasha’s glance to him with a flash of hostility behind its veil.

But he answered calmly enough.  “Of the fever, monsieur....  She was never strong.”

“And her grave...  I should like to make a report.”

“It was in the south ... desert burial, I am afraid.  You must know that the little one was hardly a true believer for our cemetery.”

“And you would say that she was only five or six years old?” Ryder persisted.

The pasha nodded.

“I should like to get as near as possible to the date if it is not too much trouble....  The father died about fifteen years ago and the mother was married to you soon after?”

“Really, monsieur, you—­”

Tewfick was frankly restive.

“I know nothing of the father,” he said sullenly.  “And as to the child’s death—­how can one recall after these years?  In one, two years after she came to me—­one does not grave these things upon the eyeballs.”

“But you do remember that it was long ago—­when your own daughter was very little?”

“Exactly.  That is my recollection, monsieur....  And I recall,” said the pasha, suddenly obliging and sentimental, “that even my little one cried for the child.  It was afflicting....  Assure the family in France of my sympathy in their disappointment.”

“I am sorry that my news is after all of no interest to you,” observed McLean, setting the example for rising.  “You will pardon my error of information—­and accept my appreciation of your courtesy.”

“It is I who am indebted for your trouble,” their host assured them, all smiles again.

But Ryder was not to be led away without a parting shot.

“The name of the Delcasse child—­was Aimee?”

Imperceptibly Tewfick hesitated.  Then bowed in assent.

“Odd,” said young Ryder thoughtfully.  “And your own daughter’s name, also, is Aimee....  Two little ones with the same name.”

With a slight, vexed laugh, as one despairing of understanding, the pasha turned to McLean.  “Your young friend, monsieur, is uninformed that Turkish children have many names....  After the loss of the elder we called the little one by the same name....  I trust I have made everything perfectly clear to you?”

“As crystal,” said McLean politely.

* * * * *

“As lightning,” said Jack Ryder hotly, striding down the street.  “It was a flash of invention, that yarn.  When I spoke about the questions raised by his marriage the old fox sniffed the wind and was afraid of trouble—­he decided on the instant that no future fortune was worth interference with his plans, and he cut the ground from under our feet....  Lord, what a lie!”