She moved away on Dr. Dean's arm, and Gervase moodily drew back
and let her pass. When she had gone, he lit a cigarette and walked
impatiently up and down the terrace, a heavy frown wrinkling his
brows. The shadow of a man suddenly darkened the moonlight in
front of him, and Denzil Murray's hand fell on his shoulder.

"Gervase," he said, huskily, "I must speak to you."

Gervase glanced him up and down, taking note of his pale face and
wild eyes with a certain good-humored regret and compassion.

"Say on, my friend."

Denzil looked straight at him, biting his lips hard and clenching
his hands in the effort to keep down some evidently violent
emotion.

"The Princess Ziska," he began,--

Gervase smiled, and flicked the ash off his cigarette.

"The Princess Ziska," he echoed,--"Yes? What of her? She seems to
be the only person talked about in Cairo. Everybody in this hotel,
at any rate, begins conversation with precisely the same words as
you do,--'the Princess Ziska!' Upon my life, it is very amusing!"

"It is not amusing to me," said Denzil, bitterly. "To me it is a
matter of life and death." He paused, and Gervase looked at him
curiously. "We've always been such good friends, Gervase," he
continued, "that I should be sorry if anything came between us