Isaacson expected to find in this sanctuary the representation of the Being to whom this noble house had been raised.  It seemed to him that in this last mystery of beauty and darkness the God Himself must dwell.  And he came into it softly, with calm but watchful eyes.

By the shrine, just before it, there stood a white figure.  As Isaacson entered it moved, as if disturbed or even startled.  A dress rustled.

Isaacson drew back.  A chill ran through his nerves.  He had been so deep in contemplation, his mind had been drawn away so far from the modern world, that this apparition of a woman, doubtless like himself a tourist, gave him one of the most unpleasant shocks he had ever endured.  And in a moment he felt as if his sudden appearance had given an equally disagreeable shock to the woman.  Looking in the darkness unnaturally tall, she stood quite still for an instant after her first abrupt movement, then, with an air of decision that was forcible, she came towards him.

Her gait seemed oddly familiar to Isaacson.  Directly she stirred he was once more in complete command of his brain.  The chill died away from his nerves.  The normal man in him started up, alert, composed, enquiring.

The woman came up to him where he stood at the entrance to the sanctuary.  Her eyes looked keenly into his eyes, as she was about to pass him.  Then she did not pass him.  She did not draw back.  She just stood where she was and looked at him, looked at him as if she saw what her mind told her, told her loudly, fiercely, she could not be seeing, was not seeing.  After an instant of this contemplation she shut her eyes.

“Mrs. Armine!” said Meyer Isaacson.

When he spoke, Mrs. Armine opened her eyes.

“Mrs. Armine!” he repeated.

He took off his hat and held out his hand.

“Then it was the Loulia I saw!” he said.

She gave him her hand and drew it away.

“You are in Egypt!” she said.

Although in the darkness her walk had been familiar to him, had prepared him for the coming up to him of Bella Donna, her voice now seemed utterly unfamiliar.  It was ugly and grating.  He remembered that in London he had thought her voice one of her greatest charms, one of her most perfectly tempered weapons.  Had he been mistaken?  Had he never heard it aright?  Or had he not heard it aright now?

“What are you doing in Egypt?” she said.

Her voice was ugly, almost hideous.  But now he realized that its timbre was completely changed by some emotion which had for the moment entire possession of her.

“What are you doing in Egypt?” she repeated.

Isaacson cleared his throat.  Afterwards he knew that he had done this because of the horrible hoarseness of Mrs. Armine’s voice.

“I was feeling overworked, run down.  I thought I would take a holiday.”

She was silent for a minute.  Then she said: