d I will give thee reason why thou
wilt not speak with Kaid to-day. This way, effendi."

He led the other into a little room hung about with rugs and tapestry,
and, going to the wall, he touched a spring. "One moment here, effendi,"
he added quietly. The room was as it had been since David last stood
within it.

"In this room, effendi," Nahoum said with cold deliberation, "Claridge
Pasha killed my brother, Foorgat Bey."

Ebn Ezra fell back as though he had been struck. Swiftly Nahoum told
him the whole truth--even to the picture of the brougham, and the rigid,
upright figure passing through the night to Foorgat's palace, the gaunt
Mizraim piloting the equipage of death.

"I have held my peace for my own reasons, effendi. Wilt thou then force
me to speak? If thou dost still cherish Claridge Pasha, wilt thou see
him ruined? Naught but ruin could follow the telling of the tale at this
moment--his work, his life, all done. The scandal, the law, vengeance!
But as it is now, Kaid may turn to him again; his work may yet go on--he
has had the luck of angels, and Kaid is fickle. Who can tell?"

Abashed and overwhelmed, Ebn Ezra Bey looked at him keenly. "To tell
of Foorgat Bey would ruin thee also," he said. "That thou knowest. The
trick--would Kaid forgive it? Claridge Pasha would not be ruined alone."

"Be it so. If thou goest to Kaid with thy story, I go to Egypt with
mine. Choose."

Ebn Ezra turned to go. "The high God judge between him and thee," he
said, and, with bowed head, left the Palace.

CHAPTER XXXIV. NAHOUM DROPS THE MASK "CLARIDGE PASHA!"

At the sound of the words, announced in a loud voice, hundreds of heads
were turned towards the entrance of the vast salon, resplendent with
gilded mirrors, great candelabra and chandeliers, golden hangings, and
divans glowing with robes of yellow silk.

It was the anniversary of Kaid's succession, and all entitled to come
poured into the splendid chamber. The showy livery of the officials,
the loose, spacious, gorgeous uniforms of the officers, with the curved
jewelled scimitars and white turbans, the rich silk robes of the Ulema,
robe over robe of coloured silk with flowing sleeves and sumptuous
silken vests, the ample dignity of noble-looking Arabs in immense white
turbans, the dark straight Stambouli coat of the officials, made a
picture of striking variety and colour and interest.

About the centre of the room, laying palm to palm again and yet again,
tou