that would be a clue!

With his mind still piecing the recollection and surmise together
his fingers pressed the spring. There was a miniature within, but it
was not the picture of Monsieur Delcassé. Ryder was looking down
upon the face of a girl, a beautiful, spirited face, with merry eyes
and wistful lips--dark eyes, with a lovely arch of brow, and
rose-red lips with haunting curves.

And eyes and brows and lips and curves, it was the face of the girl
who had gazed after him in the moonlight against the shadows of the
pasha's garden.




CHAPTER VII

TO McLEAN'S ASTONISHMENT


"It is no end of good of you, Jack, to take this trouble," Andrew
McLean remarked appreciatively, looking up from his scrutiny of the
packet which his unexpected luncheon guest had pushed over to his
plate.

"Uncommon thoughtful. It's undoubtedly a twin to that locket, the
portrait of the man's wife--whatever his name was."

"Delcassé," said Jack Ryder promptly.