vivid. It verged upon a genuine horror as Ryder's meaning sank into
his friend's mind.

McLean knew--slightly--Tewfick Pasha. He knew--supremely--the
inviolable seclusion of a daughter of such a household. He knew the
utter impossibility of any man's speech with her.

Yet here was Ryder telling him--

Ryder's telling him was a sketchy performance. He mentioned the
girl's appearance at the masquerade and their acquaintance. He
touched lightly upon her attempted flight and his pursuit. Even more
lightly he passed over those lingering moments at her garden gate
and the exchange of confidences.

"She said that her dead mother had been French. And that her name
was her mother's--Aimée. So there is--"

"But the likeness, man--her face? She never unveiled to you?"

"Well, the next night--"

"The _next_ night?"

It was at this point that Ryder began to lose his relish of McLean's
astonishment.

"Yes, the next night," he repeated with careful carelessness.... "I
told the girl I would come and see if she got in all right--there
had been some footsteps the night before--"