d up with hopes, a
dozen times my hopes were destroyed, leaving me more despairing than
ever. In spite of the terrible heat, all that could be done I did.
Recommended by an hotel proprietor, I engaged two of the shrewdest men
in this wonderful city to try and find Kaffar, but they could discover
no trace of him. I went to mosques, to temples, to bazaars--in vain. If
he were in Cairo, he was hiding.

Oh, the weary work, the dreadful uncertainty! Hoping, despairing, ever
toiling, ever searching, yet never achieving! The months were slipping
by. It was now August, and I was no nearer finding him than when I
started. Must I give up, then? Should I renounce my life's love? Should
I yield my darling to Voltaire? Never!

I formed a new resolution. I would go back to England. Doubtless I had
gone clumsily to work, and thus my failure would be explained. When once
back in London, I would engage the cleverest detectives the city could
boast of, and I would state the whole case to them. Perchance they could
do what I had failed to accomplish. This determination I at once carried
into practice, and in a little more than a week I again saw the white
cliffs of Dover. I did not rest. Arriving at Victoria, I drove straight
to Scotland Yard, and in an hour later two of the most highly
recommended officers of the London detective police force were in
possession of all the facts that I could give them that would lead to
the discovery of the Egyptian, providing he lived.

Then I drove back to my rooms in Gower Street, weary and sad, yet not
hopeless. There were four months in which to act. Two clever men were at
work, while, thank God, I was free to act and to think.

Yet the future looked terribly doubtful. Would the inquiries be
successful? would Gertrude be freed from Voltaire? and should I be
happy?

CHAPTER XVII

USING THE ENEMY'S WEAPONS

Two months passed, and no tidings of Kaffar--at least, none that were
worthy of consideration. The detectives had done all that men could do;
they had made every inquiry possible, they had set on foot dozens of
schemes; but all in vain. Voltaire, who had been closely watched, was
apparently living a quiet, harmless life, and was not, so far as could
be seen, in communication with him. I had done all that I could do
myself. I had followed in England every possible clue, all of which had
ended in failure.

Three months passed. Still no reliable news. One detective fancied he
had det