he room without another word or glance.

When he had gone, Victoria stood still, looking at the door which Si
Maieddine had shut noiselessly.

If she had not lived during all the years since Saidee's last letter, in
the hope of some such moment as this, she would have felt that she had
come into a world of romance, as she listened to the man of the East,
speaking the language of the East. But she had read too many Arabic
tales and poems to find his speech strange. At school, her studies of
her sister's adopted tongue had been confined to dry lesson-books, but
when she had been free to choose her own literature, in New York and
London, she had read more widely. People whom she had told of her
sister's marriage, and her own mission, had sent her several rare
volumes,--among others a valuable old copy of the Koran, and she had
devoured them all, delighting in the facility which grew with practice.
Now, it seemed quite simple to be talking with Sidi Maieddine ben el
Hadj Messaoud as she had talked. It was no more romantic or strange
than all of life was romantic and strange. Rather did she feel that at
last she was face to face with reality.

"He _does_ know something about Cassim," she said, half aloud, and
searching her instinct, she still thought that she could trust him to
keep faith with her. He was not playing. She believed that there was
sincerity in his eyes.

The next morning, when Victoria called at the Governor's palace, and
heard that Captain Cassim ben Halim was supposed to have died in
Constantinople, years ago, she was not cast down. "I know Si Maieddine
doesn't think he's dead," she told herself.

There was a note for her at the hotel, and though the writer had
addressed the envelope to "Mademoiselle Ray," in an educated French
handwriting, the letter inside was written in beautiful Arab lettering,
an intentionally flattering tribute to her accomplishment.

Si Maieddine informed her that his hope had been justified, and that in
conversation with his cousin his own surmises had been confirmed. A
certain plan was suggested, which he wished to propose to Mademoiselle
Ray, but as it would need some discussion, there was not time to bring
it forward before the hour when she must go out to keep her engagement.
On her return, however, he begged that she would see him, in the salon
of Madame Constant, where she would find him waiting. Meanwhile, he
ventured to remind her that for the present, secrecy was even