"Why do you say nothing of 'Antoun?' Does nobody care what becomes of
him?"

As she spoke, there was a knock at the door. One of the Arab servants
of the hotel announced that a man had a letter for Mrs. Jones.

"Mrs. Jones?" cried Biddy. "I am Mrs. Jones. Where's the letter?"

"That man not give it to us. He say he see you or not give it at all."

"Well, why didn't you send him up?"

"Arab mans not let in hotel, if peoples don't ask for them."

"An Arab! Not--not--is he a stranger?"

"Yes, Missis. Very low man. Never comed before."

"Bring him here--quick!"

Five minutes passed. We tried to talk, but could think of nothing to
say. Then the servant returned, ushering in a dwarfish Arab in a dirty
white turban, and the shabby black galabeah worn only by the poor who
cannot afford good materials and the bright colours loved by Egyptians.

"From Antoun Effendi?" asked Biddy, in excitement, as he held out a
piece of folded paper, not in an envelope.

The man shook his head. "He spik no English," explained the servant who
waited.