What was the good of going to her wedding reception?  Feebly he told himself that it was his only chance to inform her upon the history of the Delcasses.  There might have been reasons for her non-appearance at the gate, for her not writing....  He could have no glimmering of what went on behind those barred windows.  This was his only chance—­he meant to say, to tell her—­but his eager senses murmured, to see her again.

That was it—­to see her again.  He owned the lure, at last, with a bitter ruefulness.  But—­he brightened up at that—­it was partly his duty to himself.  Now he had all sorts of fool imaginings about this girl.  He was remembering her as something lovelier than a Houri, more enchanting than fairy magic, more sweet than spring.  He owed it to himself to rout these imbecile prepossessions and prove clearly and dispassionately that the girl was just a very nice little girl, a pretty bride, marrying into a very distinct life from his own—­and a girl with whom he would not have an idea in common.  A girl, in fact, far inferior to any American.  A girl not to be compared to Jinny Jeffries.

Besides, there was fun in the thing.  It tempted him tremendously.  It was adventurous, romantic forbidden.

He heard the word echoed in Turkish behind him.

So engrossed in his thoughts had he been that he had been inattentive to the rhythm of old Khazib, the tale teller’s voice, as he held forth, from the divan, beside his long-stemmed pipe, to his nightly audience, of men and boys, camel drivers, small merchants, desert men from the long caravans who were the frequenters of this cafe.

To-night there were few about the old man, and Ryder had small difficulty in drawing nearer the circle.  A green-turbaned Arab, with the profile of a Washington and the naive eyes of youth, whispered to him courteously that it was the tale of the Third Kaland, and the Prince Azib was in the palace of the forty damsels who were farewelling him, as they were to depart, according to custom, for forty days.

Khazib, with a faint salutation of his turban towards the newcomer, went slowly, sonorously on with his tale.

“We fear,” said the damsel unto Azib, “lest thou contraire our charge and disobey our injunctions.  Here now we commit to thee the keys of the palace which containeth forty chambers and thou mayest open of these thirty and nine, but beware (and we conjure thee by Allah and by the lives of us!) lest thou open the fortieth door, for therein is that which shall separate us forever.”

For a moment the cafe faded from Ryder’s eyes.  He was in the gloom of a garden, a shadowy darkness just touched by a crescent moon, and beside him in the shrubbery a dark-shrouded form, shaking its shawled head at him in denial, and whispering, lightly but tremblingly.  “It is a forbidden door ... forbidden as that fortieth....  There are thirty and nine doors in your life, monsieur, that you may open, but this is the forbidden....”