came up the steps and sat down at a table near her.  One of these men was Starnworth, whom she did not know, and of whom she had never heard.  He ordered an aperitif, and plunged into conversation with his companion.  They talked about Cairo.  Mrs. Armine sat still and listened.  Starnworth began to describe the native quarters.  Presently he spoke of the hashish cafe to which he had taken Isaacson.  He told his friend where it was.  Mrs. Armine heard the name of the street, Bab-el Meteira.  Then he spoke of the rich Egyptians who frequented the cafe, and he mentioned the name of Baroudi.  Almost immediately afterwards he and his companion got up and strolled into the hotel.

That night, quietly dressed and veiled, Mrs. Armine, accompanied by a native guide, made a pilgrimage into the strange places of the city; stayed long, very long, beneath the blackened roof of the cafe where the hashish was smoked.  She was exhausted, yet she felt feverishly, almost crazily alive.  She drank coffee after coffee.  She watched the dreaming smokers, the dreaming dancers, till she seemed to be living in a nightmare, to be detached from earth and all things she had ever known till now.

But Baroudi did not come.  And at last she returned through the dancing quarters, where her sense of nightmare deepened.

Again she did not sleep.

When day came, she felt really ill.  Yet her body was still pulsing, her brain was still throbbing, with an activity that was like a fever within her.  Directly after breakfast, which she scarcely touched, she again took a carriage and drove to Baroudi’s house.

The sleepy Arab met her at the grille, and in an almost trembling voice she made enquiries.

“Gone away,” was the reply.

“Gone?  Where to?”

“Him gone to Luxor.  Him got one dahabeeyah at Luxor.”

“Gone to Luxor!  When did he go?”

“We know last night.”

“Did he get a note I sent him yesterday morning?”

The Arab shook his head.

“Not bin back heeyah at all.”

Mrs. Armine telegraphed to the villa, and took the night train back to Luxor.

She arrived in the morning about nine, after another sleepless night.  As she drove by the Winter Palace Hotel, she saw a man walking alone upon the terrace, and, to her great surprise, recognized Meyer Isaacson.  He saw her—­she was certain of that—­but he immediately looked away, and did not take off his hat to her.  Had she, or had she not, bowed to him?  She did not know.  But in either case his behaviour was very strange.  And she could not understand why he was at the hotel.  Had something happened at the villa?  Almost before she had had time to wonder, the horses were pulled up at the gate.

She had expected Ibrahim to meet her at the station.  But he had not come.  Nor did he meet her at the gate, which was opened by the gardener.  She nodded in reply to his salutation, hastened across the garden, and came into the house.