in some mysterious Arab pocket. "But hold on, Duffer. Something you
said just then may be important. Is it true that my messenger didn't
give you the letter?"

"If you'd hung about Shepheard's Hotel ten minutes longer, you'd have
seen the fellow who did give it. Bedr el Gemaly he calls himself
--Armenian Mussulman, a sickening combination, and an awful brute to look
at--said your messenger was taken suddenly ill; pretends to be a
dragoman."

"What is he like?"

"Rather like a partially decayed but decently dressed goat."

"Don't rot. This may be serious."

I described Bedr el Gemaly as best I could, feature by feature. When I
had polished them off, Anthony shook his green-turbaned head. "No
portrait of him in my rogues' gallery. Just now, I'm sensitive about
spies--over-sensitive rather. Of course, you've spotted my game?"

"I confess I was conceited enough to think you'd given yourself all
this trouble with the costumier in order to take a rise out of me. But
when you speak of spies, I begin to put two and two together--your
business in Cairo--the powers that be, keeping you from me last night,
etc. I suppose it's an official job, this fancy dress affair?"

"Yes. In my own capacity, I'm not in Cairo. I turned up day before
yesterday, jolly glad to get back from Adrianople--though it was good
fun there, I can tell you, for a while; and I looked forward to