ess--for such
it undoubtedly seemed to me--came the noise of an opening door, a light
from the inside of the Cottage, a patter of quick-moving feet on the
flagged path that led to the garden gate. The next moment Mary saw the
figure of Mr. Saffron, in his old gray shawl, standing at the gate. He
was waving his right arm in an excited way, and his hand held a large
sheet of paper.

"Hector! Hector, my dear, dear boy! The news has come at last. You can be
off tomorrow!"

Beaumaroy started violently, glanced at his old friend's strange figure,
glanced once, too, at Mary; the expression of utter despair which his
face had worn seemed modified into one of humorous bewilderment.

"Yes, yes, you can start tomorrow for Morocco, my dear boy!" cried old
Mr. Saffron.

Beaumaroy lifted his hat to her, cried, "I'm coming, sir!" turned on his
heel, and strode quickly up to Mr. Saffron. She watched him open the gate
and take the old gentleman by the arm; she heard the murmur of his voice
speaking soft accents as the pair walked up the path together. They
passed into the house, and the door was shut.

Mary stood where she was for a moment, then moved slowly, hesitatingly,
yet as though under a lure which she could not resist. Just outside the
gate lay something that gleamed white through the darkness. It was the
sheet of paper. Mr. Saffron had dropped it in his excitement, and
Beaumaroy had not noticed.

Mary stole forward and picked it up stealthily; she was incapable of
resisting her curiosity or even of stopping to think about her action.
She held it up to what light there was, and strained her eyes to examine
it. So far as she could see, it was covered with dots, dashes, lines,
queerly drawn geometrical figures--a mass of meaningless hieroglyphics.
She dropped it again where she had found it, and made off home with
guilty swiftness.

Yes, there had been, this time, a distinctly metallic ring in old Mr.
Saffron's voice.

CHAPTER X

THE MAGICAL WORD MOROCCO!

When Mary arrived home, she found Cynthia and Captain Alec still in
possession of the drawing-room; their manner accused her legitimate entry
into the room of being an outrageous intrusion. She took no heed of that,
and indeed little heed of them. To tell the truth, she was ashamed to
confess, but it was the truth, she felt rather tired of them that
evening. Their affair deserved every laudatory epithet, except that of
interesting; so she declared peevishly