id company. Yet he was the gainer. They little guessed how
their commonness heightened contrast, set mercilessly thus beside the
strange, eternal beauty of the sand.

Occasionally the protest in his soul betrayed itself in words, which
of course they did not understand. "He is so clever, isn't he?"
And then, having relieved his feelings, he would comfort himself
characteristically:

"The Desert has not noticed them. The Sand is not aware of their
existence. How should the sea take note of rubbish that lies above its
tide-line?"

For Henriot drew near to its great shifting altars in an attitude of
worship. The wilderness made him kneel in heart. Its shining reaches led
to the oldest Temple in the world, and every journey that he made was
like a sacrament. For him the Desert was a consecrated place. It was
sacred.

And his tactful hosts, knowing his peculiarities, left their house open
to him when he cared to come--they lived upon the northern edge of the
oasis--and he was as free as though he were absolutely alone. He blessed
them; he rejoiced that he had come. Little Helouan accepted him. The
Desert knew that he was there.

* * * * *

From his corner of the big dining-room he could see the other guests,
but his roving eye always returned to the figure of a solitary man who
sat at an adjoining table, and whose personality stirred his interest.
While affecting to look elsewhere, he studied him as closely as might
be. There was something about the stranger that touched his
curiosity--a certain air of expectation that he wore. But it was more
than that: it was anticipation, apprehension in it somewhere. The man
was nervous, uneasy. His restless way of suddenly looking about him
proved it. Henriot tried every one else in the room as well; but, though
his thought settled on others too, he always came back to the figure of
this solitary being opposite, who ate his dinner as if afraid of being
seen, and glanced up sometimes as if fearful of being watched. Henriot's
curiosity, before he knew it, became suspicion. There was mystery here.
The table, he noticed, was laid for two.

"Is he an actor, a priest of some strange religion, an enquiry agent, or
just--a crank?" was the thought that first occurred to him. And the
question suggested itself without amusement. The impression of
subterfuge and caution he conveyed left his observer unsatisfied.

The face was clean shaven, dark, and strong;