And every one laughingly responded. This impromptu toast would have been
drunk with more warmth, if we could have foreseen an immediate event.
Not less peculiar were Mrs. Falchion's words to Hungerford the evening
before, recorded in the last sentence of the preceding chapter.

Cigars were passed, and the men rose and strolled away. We wandered
outside the gardens, passing the rejected guide as we did so. "I don't
like the look in his eye," said Clovelly.

Colonel Ryder laughed. "You've always got a fine vision for the
dramatic."

We passed on. I suppose about twenty minutes had gone when, as we were
entering the garden again, we heard loud cries. Hurrying forward towards
the Tanks, we saw a strange sight.

There, on a narrow wall dividing two great tanks, were three people--
Mrs. Falchion, Amshar, and the rejected Arab guide. Amshar was crouching
behind Mrs. Falchion, and clinging to her skirts in abject fear. The
Arab threatened with a knife. He could not get at Amshar without
thrusting Mrs. Falchion aside, and, as I said, the wall was narrow. He
was bent like a tiger about to spring.

Seeing Mrs. Falchion and Amshar apart from the others,--Mrs. Falchion
having insisted on crossing this narrow and precipitous wall,--he had
suddenly rushed after them. As he did so, Miss Treherne saw him, and
cried out. Mrs. Falchion faced round swiftly, and then came this tragic
situation.

Some one must die.