n the garden in the city! Those indeed were my words. I hear
myself from your lips, and yet recognise myself, if that be not vanity.
But, madame, why have you sought me? What is it you wish to know--to
hear?"

He looked at her innocently, as though he did not know her errand; as
though beyond, in the desert, there was no tragedy approaching--or come.

"Excellency, you are aware that I have come to ask for news of Claridge
Pasha." She leaned forward slightly, but, apart from her tightly
interlaced fingers, it would not have been possible to know that she was
under any strain.

"You come to me instead of to the Effendina. May I ask why, madame? Your
husband's position--I did not know you were Lord Eglington's wife--would
entitle you to the highest consideration."

"I knew that Nahoum Pasha would have the whole knowledge, while the
Effendina would have part only. Excellency, will you not tell me what
news You have? Is Claridge Pasha alive?"

"Madame, I do not know. He is in the desert. He was surrounded. For over
a month there has been no word-none. He is in danger. His way by the
river was blocked. He stayed too long. He might have escaped, but he
would insist on saving the loyal natives, on remaining with them, since
he could not bring them across the desert; and the river and the desert
are silent. Nothing comes out of that furnace yonder. Nothing comes."

He bent his eyes upon her complacently. Her own dropped. She could not
bear that he should see the misery in them.

"You have come to try and save him, madame. What did you expect to
do? Your Government did not strengthen my hands; your husband did
nothing--nothing that could make it possible for me to act. There are
many nations here, alas! Your husband does not take so great an interest
in the fate of Claridge Pasha as yourself, madame."

She ignored the insult. She had determined to endure everything, if she
might but induce this man to do the thing that could be done--if it was
not too late. Before she could frame a reply, he said urbanely:

"But that is not to be expected. There was that between Claridge Pasha
and yourself which would induce you to do all you might do for him, to
be anxious for his welfare. Gratitude is a rare thing--as rare as the
flower of the century--aloe; but you have it, madame."

There was no chance to misunderstand him. Foorgat Bey--he knew the
truth, and had known it all these years.

"Excellency," she said, "if through me, C