inevitable.

As it was, he did none of these things.

* * * * *

He said to himself that all that he could do now--and the least that
he could do--was to let the girl know as much of the story as he
knew and draw her own conclusions. Then, if she wanted to go on and
sacrifice herself for Tewfick, very well. That was none of his
affair.

But she had a right to the truth and to the chance of choice.

He did not know what he could do, but secretly and defiantly he
promised himself that he would do something, and in the back of his
mind an idea was already taking shape. It was manifest in the
tenacity with which he refused to send the locket to the Delcassés.
He had the case and the miniature photographed very carefully by the
man who did the reproductions for museum illustrations, and he sent
that, conscious of McLean's silent thought that he was cherishing
the portrait for a sentimental memory.

But he had other plans for it.

He did not return to his diggings. He sent a message to the deserted
Thatcher, faking errands in Cairo, and he took a room at the hotel
where Jinny Jeffries--now up the Nile--had stayed. He spent a great
deal of time evenings in the hotel garden, staring over the brick
walls to the tops of distant palms beyond, and not infrequently he