“It is the worst illness in the world,” said Denzil, speaking hurriedly and wildly.  “The most cruel and torturing!  And there is no cure for it save death.  My God, Gervase!  You were my friend but yesterday!  I never should have thought it possible to hate you!”

“Yet you do hate me?” queried Gervase, still smiling a little.

“Hate you?  I could kill you!  You have been with her!”

Quietly Gervase took his arm.

“My good Denzil, you are mistaken!  I confess to you frankly I should have been with her—­you mean the Princess Ziska, of course--had it been possible.  But she has fled the city for the moment—­ at least, according to the corpse-like Nubian who acts as porter.”

“He lies!” exclaimed Denzil, hotly.  “I saw her this morning.”

“I hope you improved your opportunity,” said Gervase, imperturbably.  “Anyway, at the present moment she is not visible.”

A silence fell between them for some minutes; then Denzil spoke again.

“Gervase, it is no use, I cannot stand this sort of thing.  We must have it out.  What does it all mean?”

“It is difficult to explain, my dear boy,” answered Gervase, half seriously, half mockingly.  “It means, I presume, that we are both in love with the same woman, and that we both intend to try our chances with her.  But, as I told you the other night, I do not see why we should quarrel about it.  Your intentions towards the Princess are honorable—­mine are dishonorable, and I shall make no secret of them.  If you win her, I shall ...”

He paused, and there was a sudden look in his eyes which gave them a sombre darkness, darker than their own natural color.

“You shall—­what?” asked Denzil.

“Do something desperate,” replied Gervase.  “What the something will be depends on the humor of the moment.  A tiger balked of his prey is not an agreeable beast; a strong man deprived of the woman he passionately desires is a little less agreeable even than the tiger.  But let us adopt the policy of laissez-faire.  Nothing is decided; the fair one cares for neither of us; let us be friends until she makes her choice.”

“We cannot be friends,” said Denzil, sternly.

“Good!  Let us be foes then, but courteous, even in our quarrel, dear boy.  If we must kill each other, let us do it civilly.  To fly at each other’s throats would be purely barbaric.  We owe a certain duty to civilization; things have progressed since the days of Araxes.”

Denzil stared at him gloomily.

“Araxes is Dr. Dean’s fad,” he said.  “I don’t know anything about Egyptian mummies, and don’t want to know.  My matter is with the present, and not with the past.”

They had reached the hotel by this time, and turned into the gardens side by side.

“You understand?” repeated Denzil.  “We cannot be friends!”

Gervase gave him a profoundly courteous salute, and the two separated.