was the person he awaited. At the same moment, instinct was busily
whispering to me that there was something fishy about him, despite the
alleged letter. He did not look the type of man Fenton would recommend.
And though his face was of an unwholesome olive tint, and he wore a
tarbush, and a galabeah as long as a dressing-gown, under his short
European coat, I was sure he was not of Arab or Egyptian blood.

"Milord Borrow?" he began, displaying large white teeth, of which he
was evidently proud.

I assented.

"My name is Bedr el Gemaly," he introduced himself. "I have a letter
for milord."

"Who gave it to you?" I challenged him.

The ingratiating smile seemed to flicker like a candle flame in a
sudden puff of wind. "A friend of my, a dragoman. He could not come to
bring it. So he give it to me. The gentleman's name was Fenton. My
friend, he was sent from him at Cairo." As the fellow spoke, in fairly
good English, he took from a pocket of the short coat which spoiled his
costume, a colourful silk handkerchief. Unwrapping this, he produced an
envelope. It was addressed to me in the handwriting of Fenton, but
before opening it I went on with my catechism.

"Then the letter doesn't introduce you, but your friend?"

The smile was practically dead now. "I think it do not introduce any
ones. It is only a letter. My friend Abdullah engaged to carry it. But