mademoiselle--"

"Is my daughter."

McLean was silent. Ryder could hardly trust himself to speak.

"What did she die of?" he asked at last, in a voice whose edged
quality brought the pasha's glance to him with a flash of hostility
behind its veil.

But he answered calmly enough. "Of the fever, monsieur.... She was
never strong."

"And her grave... I should like to make a report."

"It was in the south ... desert burial, I am afraid. You must know
that the little one was hardly a true believer for our cemetery."

"And you would say that she was only five or six years old?" Ryder
persisted.

The pasha nodded.

"I should like to get as near as possible to the date if it is not
too much trouble.... The father died about fifteen years ago and the
mother was married to you soon after?"

"Really, monsieur, you--"

Tewfick was frankly restive.