ry charm except the color of some worn old rugs; the
windows were draped in European style, the walls exhibited paper
instead of paneling; in one corner was a Victrola and in another,
beside a lounge chair, stood a table littered with cigarette trays
and French novels with explicit titles.

The only Egyptian touch to the place was four enormous oil portraits
of pompous turbaned gentlemen, in one of whom Ryder recognized the
familiar rotundity of Mahomet Ali in his grand robes.

As a pasha's palace it was a blow, and Ryder's vague, romantic
notions of high halls and gilded arches, suffered a collapse.

Tewfick Pasha came in with haste. He had been going out when these
callers were announced and he was dressed for parade, in a very
light, very tight suit, gardenia in his button-hole, cane in his
gloved hands, fez upon his head. For all their smiling welcome, his
full, dark eyes were uneasy.

He had grown distrustful of surprises.

It was McLean's affair to reassure him. Far from fulminating any
accusations the canny Scot announced himself as the bearer of glad
tidings. A fortune, he announced, was coming to the pasha--or to the
pasha's family. A very rich old woman in France had decided to
change her will.

There he paused and the pasha continued to smile non-committally,
but the word fortune was operating. In the back of his mind he was
hastily trying to think of rich old women in France who might change
their wills.

"I am afraid that it is my stupidity which has kept you from the
knowledge of this for some weeks," McLean went on. "I had so many
other matters to look up that I did not at once consult my records.
And it has been so many years since you married Madame Delcasse that
the name had slipped general recollection.... It was twelve years
ago, I believe, that she died?"

Casually he waited and Jack Ryder held his breath. He felt the full
suspense of a pause long enough for the pasha's thoughts to dart
down several avenues and back. If the man should deny it! But why
should he? What harm in the admission, after all these years, with
Madame Delcasse dead and buried? And with a fortune involved in the
admission.

The Turk bowed and Ryder breathed again.

"Ten years," said Tewfick softly.

"Ah--ten. But there has been no communication with France for twelve
years or even longer?"

"Possibly not, monsieur."

"This old aunt," pursued McLean, "was a person of prejudice as well
as fortune--hence it has