r he had
ever known; of old John Fairley; the love of the woods and the hills
where he had wandered came upon him. There was work to do in England,
work too little done--the memory of the great meeting at Heddington
flashed upon him. Could his labour and his skill, if he had any, not be
used there? Ah, the green fields, the soft grey skies, the quiet vale,
the brave, self-respecting, toiling millions, the beautiful sense of law
and order and goodness! Could his gifts and labours not be used there?
Could not--

He was suddenly startled by a smothered cry, then a call of distress. It
was the voice of a woman.

He started up. The voice seemed to come from a room at his right; not
that from which he had entered, but one still beyond this where he was.
He sprang towards the wall and examined it swiftly. Finding a division
in the tapestry, he ran his fingers quickly and heavily down the crack
between. It came upon the button of a spring. He pressed it, the door
yielded, and, throwing it back, he stepped into the room-to see a woman
struggling to resist the embraces and kisses of a man. The face was that
of the girl who had looked out of the panel in the mooshrabieh screen.
Then it was beautiful in its mirth and animation, now it was pale
and terror-stricken, as with one free hand she fiercely beat the face
pressed to hers.

The girl only had seen David enter. The man was not conscious of his
presence till he was seized and flung against the wall. The violence of
the impact brought down at his feet two weapons from the wall above
him. He seized one-a dagger-and sprang to his feet. Before he could move
forward or raise his arm, however, David struck him a blow in the neck
which flung him upon a square marble pedestal intended for a statue.
In falling his head struck violently a sharp corner of the pedestal. He
lurched, rolled over on the floor, and lay still.

The girl gave a choking cry. David quickly stooped and turned the body
over. There was a cut where the hair met the temple. He opened the
waistcoat and thrust his hand inside the shirt. Then he felt the pulse
of the limp wrist.

For a moment he looked at the face steadily, almost contemplatively it
might have seemed, and then drew both arms close to the body.

Foorgat Bey, the brother of Nahoum Pasha, was dead.

Rising, David turned, as if in a dream, to the girl. He made a motion of
the hand towards the body. She understood. Dismay was in her face, but
the look