She went into her bedroom and after half an hour she came out dressed for driving.  She was resolved to go herself to Baroudi’s house.  After all these months of slavish obedience and of fear, something rose up within her, something that had passed for the moment beyond obedience and even beyond fear, that was fiercely determined, that was reckless of consequences.  She engaged a victoria and drove to Baroudi’s house.  It was on the outskirts of Cairo, near the Nile, on the Island of Gezira.  A garden surrounded it, enclosed by high walls and entered by tall gates of elaborately-wrought ironwork.  These gates were shut and the coachman pulled up his horses.  Inside, on the left, there was a lodge from which there now came a tall Arab.  Mrs. Armine got quickly out of the carriage, passed the horses, and stood looking through the gate.

“Is Mahmoud Baroudi in Cairo?” she said, in French.

The Arab said something in Arabic.

“Is Baroudi Effendi in Cairo?” Mrs. Armine said in English.

“Yes, I think,” replied the man, in careful English, speaking slowly.

“In the city?”

“I think.”

She took her purse, opened it, and gave him some money.

“Where?”

“I dunno.”

“When will he be back here?”

“I dunno.”

She felt inclined to scream.

“Will he come back to-night, do you think?”

“I dunno.  Sometimes stay in Cairo all night.”

“But he has not gone away?  He is not away from Cairo?  He is in Cairo?”

“I s’pose.”

They stood for a moment staring at each other through the dividing gate.  The man’s eyes were absolutely expressionless.  He looked as if he were half asleep.  Mrs. Armine turned away, and got into the carriage.

“Go back to Shepheard’s.”

The coachman smacked his whip.  The horses trotted.

When she reached Shepheard’s, she resolved to spend the whole afternoon upon the terrace.  By chance Baroudi might come there.  It was not at all improbable.  She had heard it said that almost every one who was any one, in Cairo, either came to Shepheard’s or might be seen passing by in the afternoon hours.  She took an arm-chair near the railing, with a table beside it.  She bought papers, a magazine, and sat there, sometimes pretending to read, but always looking, looking, at the men coming up and down the steps, at the men walking and driving by in the crowded street.  Tea-time came.  She ordered tea.  She drank it slowly.  Her head was aching.  Her eyes were tired with examining so many faces of men.  But still she watched, till evening began to fall and within the house behind her the deep note of a gong sounded, announcing the half-hour before dinner.  What more could she do?  Mechanically she began to gather the papers together.  She supposed she must go in.  The terrace was almost deserted.  She was just about to get up, when two men, one English, the other American,