“I should, indeed, be sorry,” she said, primly, “if I were mistaken in my private estimate of the Princess Ziska’s character, but I must believe my own eyes and the evidence of my own senses, and surely no one can condone the extremely fast way in which she behaved with that new man—­that French artist, Armand Gervase—­ last night.  Why, she danced six times with him!  And she actually allowed him to walk home with her through the streets of Cairo!  They went off together, in their fancy dresses, just as they were!  I never heard of such a thing!”

“Oh, there was nothing remarkable at all in that,” said Lord Fulkeward.  “Everybody went about the place in fancy costume last night.  I went out in my Neapolitan dress with a girl, and I met Denzil Murray coming down a street just behind here—­took him for a Florentine prince, upon my word!  And I bet you Gervase never got beyond the door of the Princess’s palace; for that blessed old Nubian she keeps—­the chap with a face like a mummy—­bangs the gate in everybody’s face, and says in guttural French:  ’La Princesse ne voit per-r-r-sonne!’ I’ve tried it.  I tell you it’s no go!”

“Well, we shall all get inside the mysterious palace next Wednesday evening,” said Lady Fulkeward, closing her eyes with a graceful air of languor, “It will be charming, I am sure, and I daresay we shall find that there is no mystery at all about it.”

“Two months ago,” suddenly said a smooth voice behind them, “the Ziska’s house or palace was uninhabited.”

Lady Fulkeward gave a little scream and looked round.

“Good gracious, Dr. Dean!  How you frightened me!”

The Doctor made an apologetic bow.

“I am very sorry.  I forgot you were so sensitive; pray pardon me!  As I was saying, two months ago the palace of the Princess Ziska was a deserted barrack.  Formerly, so I hear, it used to be the house of some great personage; but it had been allowed to fall into decay, and nobody would rent it, even for the rush of the Cairene season, till it was secured by the Nubian you were speaking of just now—­the interesting Nubian with the face like a mummy; he took it and furnished it, and when it was ready Madame la Princesse appeared on the scene and has resided there every since.”

“I wonder what that Nubian has to do with her?” said Lady Chetwynd Lyle, severely.

“Nothing at all,” replied the Doctor, calmly.  “He is the merest servant—­the kind of person who is ‘told off’ to attend on the women of a harem.”

“Ah, I see you have been making inquiries concerning the princess, Doctor,” said Lady Fulkeward, with a smile.

“I have.”

“And have you found out anything about her?”

“No; that is, nothing of social importance, except, perhaps, two items—­first, that she is not a Russian; secondly, that she has never been married.”

“Never been married!” exclaimed Lady Chetwynd Lyle, then suddenly turning to her daughters she said blandly:  “Muriel, Dolly, go into the house, my dears.  It is getting rather warm for you on this terrace.  I will join you in a few minutes.”