for my mind was busy with that taunting memory of the two dark eyes
looking out from the folds of the green embroidered shawl. Where, and
when, had I met their glance before?

To that problem I sought an answer in vain.

The message despatched to New Scotland Yard, I found M. Samarkan, long
famous as a _mâitre d' hôtel_ in Cairo, and now host of London's
newest and most palatial _khan_. Portly, and wearing a gray imperial,
M. Samarkan had the manners of a courtier, and the smile of a true Greek.

I told him what was necessary, and no more, desiring him to go to
suite 14a without delay and also without arousing unnecessary
attention. I dropped no hint of foul play, but M. Samarkan expressed
profound (and professional) regret that so distinguished, though
unprofitable, a patron should have selected the New Louvre, thus
early in its history, as the terminus of his career.

"By the way," I said, "have you Oriental guests with you, at the moment?"

"No, monsieur," he assured me.

"Not a certain Oriental lady?" I persisted.

M. Samarkan slowly shook his head.

"Possibly monsieur has seen one of the _ayahs?_ There are several
Anglo-Indian families resident in the New Louvre at present."

An _ayah?_ It was just possible, of course. Yet ...