probably telling the truth there--he may never have known Delcassé.
And as for the widow--she must have been in no end of trouble with a
dead man and a wrecked expedition and a baby on her hands, and
Tewfick may have offered himself as a grateful solution to her.
You'd be surprised at the things I've heard. And if she looked like
her picture Tewfick probably laid himself out to be lovely to
her.... I rather like the chap, myself."

"I love him," Ryder snorted. "The infernal liar--"

"Steady now--suppose it's all the truth? Nothing impossible to it.
Fact is, I rather believe it," said McLean imperturbably. "It hangs
together. If this girl you met thinks she's his daughter, that's
conclusive. She'd have some idea--servants' gossip or family
whisperings.... And why should he have brought her up as his own?"

"No other children. And he'd grown fond of her, of course. If you
could see her!" retorted Ryder.

"Just as well, I can't.... And I think he could hardly have kept her
in the dark.... We'd better call it a wild goose chase and say the
man's telling the truth."

"If this girl were his daughter she couldn't be more than fourteen
years old. And I've seen the girl and she's eighteen if she's a
day--you might take her for twenty. _Fourteen_!" said Ryder in
repudiating scorn.

Hesitating McLean murmured something about the early maturity of the
natives.