was to draw Isaacson's attention to the terrace. He was
Mahmoud Baroudi. He was dressed in a light grey suit, and wore the
tarbush. Behind him sat a very smart little English groom, dressed in
livery, with a shining top-hat, breeches, and top-boots. The phaeton was
black with scarlet wheels. The silver on the harness glittered with
polish; the chains which fastened the horses to the scarlet pole gleamed
brilliantly in the sunshine. But it was Baroudi, his extraordinary
physique, his striking, nonchalant face, and his first-rate driving,
which attracted all eyes, which held Isaacson's eyes. He pulled up his
horses in front of the steps. The groom was down in a moment. Baroudi
gave him the reins, got out, and walked up to the terrace. He stood for
a moment, looking calmly round; then brought his right hand to his
tarbush as he saw a party of French friends, which he immediately
joined. They welcomed him with obvious delight. Two of them, perfectly
dressed Parisian women, made room for him between them. As he sat down,
smiling, Isaacson noticed his slanting eyebrows and his magnificent
throat, which looked as strong as the throat of a bull.

"My dear Isaacson! Is it possible? I should almost as soon have expected
to meet the Sphinx in Cleveland Square!"

A tall man, not much over thirty, with light, imaginative, yet
penetrating eyes, stood before him, and with a "May I?" sat down beside
him, after cordially grasping his hand.

"Starnworth, you're one of the few men--I might say almost the only
man--I'm glad to meet at this moment. Where have you just come from, or
where are you just going? I can't believe you are going to stay in
Cairo."

"No. I've been in Syria, just arrived from Damascus. I've been with a
caravan--yes, I'll have some tea. I'm going to start to-morrow or next
day from Mena House for another little desert trip."

"Little! How many days?"

"Oh, I don't know," said the newcomer, negligently. "Three weeks out and
three weeks back, I believe--something like that--to visit an oasis
where there are some extraordinary ruins. But why are you here? What
induced you to leave your innumerable patients?"

After a very slight hesitation Isaacson answered:

"A whim."

"The deuce! Can doctors who are the rage permit themselves to be
governed by whims?"

This man, Basil Starnworth, was an English nomad who for years had
steeped himself in the golden East, who spoke Arabic and innumerable
Eastern dialects, wh