d read that ominous
sentence, which, when his eyes had first fallen upon it, had blotted
out the sunlight of Egypt.

"... And you will be surprised to hear that Antony is back in London ...
and is a frequent visitor here. It is quite like old times...."

Raising his haggard eyes, Robert Cairn saw that his father was
watching him.

"Keep calm, my boy," urged the doctor; "it can profit us nothing, it
can profit Myra nothing, for you to shatter your nerves at a time when
real trials are before you. You are inviting another breakdown. Oh! I
know it is hard; but for everybody's sake try to keep yourself in
hand."

"I am trying, sir," replied Robert hollowly.

Dr. Cairn nodded, drumming his fingers upon his knee.

"We must be diplomatic," he continued. "That James Saunderson proposed
to return to London, I had no idea. I thought that Myra would be far
outside the Black maelstroem in Scotland. Had I suspected that
Saunderson would come to London, I should have made other
arrangements."

"Of course, sir, I know that. But even so we could never have foreseen
this."

Dr. Cairn shook his head.

"To think that whilst we have been scouring Egypt from Port Said to
Assouan--_he_ has been laughing at us in London!" he said. "Directly
after the affair at Meydum he must have left the country--how, Heaven
only knows. That letter is three weeks old, now?"

Robert Cairn nodded. "What may have happened since--what may have
happened!"

"You take too gloomy a view. James Saunderson is a Roman guardian.
Even Antony Ferrara could make little headway there."

"But Myra says that--Ferrara is--a frequent visitor."

"And Saunderson," replied Dr. Cairn with a grim smile, "is a
Scotchman! Rely upon his diplomacy, Rob. Myra will be safe enough."

"God grant that she is!"

At that, silence fell between them, until punctually to time, the
train slowed into Charing Cross. Inspired by a common anxiety, Dr.
Cairn and his son were first among the passengers to pass the barrier.
The car was waiting for them; and within five minutes of the arrival
of the train they were whirling through London's traffic to the house
of James Saunderson.

It lay in that quaint backwater, remote from motor-bus
high-ways--Dulwich Common, and was a rambling red-tiled building which
at some time had been a farmhouse. As the big car pulled up at the
gate, Saunderson, a large-boned Scotchman, tawny-eyed, and with his
grey hair worn long and untidily, came out t