



Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




Her Royal Highness
A Romance of the Chancelleries of Europe
By William Le Queux
Published by Hodder and Stoughton.
This edition dated 1914.

Her Royal Highness, by William Le Queux.

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HER ROYAL HIGHNESS, BY WILLIAM LE QUEUX.

CHAPTER ONE.

THE NILE TRAVELLERS.

The mystic hour of the desert afterglow.

A large, square wooden veranda covered by a red and white awning, above
a wide silent sweep of flowing river, whose huge rocks, worn smooth
through a thousand ages, raised their backs about the stream, a glimpse
of green feathery palms and flaming scarlet poinsettias on the island
opposite, and beyond the great drab desert, the illimitable waste of
stony, undulating sands stretching away to the infinite, and bathed in
the blood-red light of the dying day.

On the veranda sat a crowd of chattering English men and women of wealth
and leisure--taking tea.  The women were mostly in white muslins, and
many wore white sun-helmets though it was December, while the men were
mostly in clean suits of "ducks."  An orchestra from Italy was playing
Musetta's waltz-song from "La Boheme," and the same people one meets at
the opera, at supper at the Savoy or the Ritz, were chattering over tea
and pastries served by silent-footed, dark-faced Nubians in scarlet
fezes and long white caftans.

The Cataract Hotel at Assouan is, at five o'clock, when the Eastern
desert is flooded by the wonderful green and crimson of the fading sun,
the most select yet cosmopolitan circle in all the world, the
meeting-place of those seekers after sunshine who have ascended the Nile
to the spot where rain has never fallen within the memory of man.

The poor old played-out Riviera has still its artificial attractions, it
is true.  One can, for once in one's life, enjoy the pasteboard of the
Nice carnival, the irresponsible frolic of the Battle of Flowers, the
night gaiety of Ciro's, breathe the combined odour of perspiration and
perfume in the rooms at Monte, eat the _gateaux_ at Vogarde's, play the
one-franc game of _boule_ at the Casino Municipal, or lunch off the
delicious trout from the tanks at the Reserve at Beaulieu.  But the Cote
d'Azur and its habitues, its _demi-mondaines_ and its _escrocs_ soon
pall upon one; hence Society nowadays goes farther afield--to Egypt, the
land of wonders, where there is ever-increasing charm, where the winter
days amid those stupendous monuments of a long-dead civilisation are
rainless, the land where Christmas is as warm as our English August,
where all is silent and dreamy beside the mighty Nile, and where the
brown-faced sons of the desert kneel Mecca-wards at sunset and praise
the name of Allah the One.  Allah is just; Allah is merciful.  There is
no God but Allah!

Some winter idlers go to Cairo, and there indulge in the gaieties of
Shepheard's, the Savoy, or the Gezireh Palace, or the teas and dances at
Mena House, or the breath of freedom at Heliopolis.  But Cairo is not
Egypt.  To see and to know Egypt one must ascend the Nile a farther
eight hundred miles to Luxor--the town where once stood ancient Thebes,
the City of a Hundred Gates, or to Assouan, the Aswan of the days of the
Pharaohs.

It is there, on the borders of the glowing desert of Nubia, far removed
from the stress of modern life, that one first begins to experience the
new joy of existence--life in that limitless wilderness of sky and sand,
life amid the relics of a mighty and wonderful age long since bygone and
forgotten.

On that afternoon of early December a merry party of four young people--
two girls and two men--sat at one of the small tables on the veranda.

The gay quartette, waited upon by Ahmed, an erect bronze statue,
picturesque in his white caftan and red sash, were laughing merrily as
the elder of the two men recounted the amusing progress of a party whom
he had accompanied on camels into the desert that afternoon.

Around them everywhere was loud chatter and laughter, while the
orchestra played dreamily, the music floating across the slowly
darkening river which flowed on its course from unexplored regions of
Central Africa away to the far-distant Mediterranean.

"I went across to Philae this morning to see the temples--Pharaoh's Bed,
and the rest.  Hardy pulled me out of bed at six o'clock," exclaimed the
younger of the two men--a tall, clean-shaven Englishman of a decided
military type.  "But I must confess that after flogging the Nile for
nearly three weeks and Mahmoud taking us to see every temple along its
banks, I'm getting just a bit fed up with antiquities and ruins."

"Oh, my dear fellow," cried the elder man in quick reproach, "you must
never admit such a thing in Upper Egypt.  It's horribly bad form.
Mademoiselle will agree--eh?"

And the broad-shouldered, handsome man of thirty-five or so in a clean
white linen suit leaned back in his chair and laughed at the pretty,
dark-haired vivacious French girl he had addressed.  She was not more
than twenty, with a refined oval face, wonderfully expressive eyes, and
a small delicate mouth which parted as she shrugged her shoulders and
smiled back at him in assent.

"Ah, Waldron, but you're a diplomat, you know!" replied the younger man.
"You fellows always say the right thing in the right place.  We chaps
in the Service, however, have a habit of speaking bluntly, I fear."

"It is just as easy to be diplomatic, my dear Chester, as to be
indiscreet," replied the Honourable Hubert Waldron, M.V.O., who was
second secretary at His Britannic Majesty's Embassy at Madrid, and was
now on leave for a winter holiday.

Not yet forty, a smart, well-groomed, athletic, clean-cut Englishman, he
nevertheless possessed the distinct Foreign Office air, and was, at the
same time, a cosmopolitan of cosmopolitans.  Essentially a ladies' man,
as every good diplomat should be, he was, in addition, decidedly
handsome, with pale, refined features, a strong face with straight nose,
a pair of dark, deep-set, thoughtful eyes, and a dark, well-trained
moustache.

At Court functions, balls, receptions, official dinners and such-like
festivities when, with his colleague, he was bound to be on show in his
perfect-fitting diplomatic uniform, women always singled him out as a
striking figure, as, indeed, he was, and at Stockholm, Brussels, and
Lima, where he had respectively served as attache he had attained great
popularity among the _corps diplomatique_, and the gay, giddy world of
Society which, in every capital, revolves about it.

The quartette had made each other's acquaintance since leaving Cairo,
having found themselves fellow-passengers on board the fine new
river-steamer, the _Arabia_--members of a smart party of wealthy idlers
which included two of America's most famous millionaires.  The party
numbered thirty, all told, and during the three weeks they had travelled
together and had all spent a time which each declared to be the most
delightful of their lives.

The younger Englishman was Chester Dawson, son of Sir Forbes Dawson,
M.P., and a lieutenant in the 19th Hussars, who, like Waldron, was on
leave, while of the two ladies the younger was French, though she spoke
English perfectly, and the other, ten years her senior, was slightly
angular and decidedly English.

Mademoiselle Lola Duprez had attracted Hubert Waldron from the first
moment when they had met on the upper deck an hour after leaving Cairo.
She was bright, vivacious, and extremely _chic_, possessing all the
daintiness of the true Parisienne without her irritating mannerisms.
Slightly _petite_, with an extremely pretty and refined face, big eyes,
a perfect complexion and a slim, erect figure, she was--judged from the
standpoint of a connoisseur of female beauty as Hubert Waldron
undoubtedly was--unusually beautiful and attractive.  On many of the
excursions into the desert when the party had landed to visit the
ancient monuments, the pyramid of Sakkara, the Tomb of Thi, the temples
of Abydos Denderah and the rest, Hubert had ridden a donkey at her side,
or spent the long, idle, sunny afternoon hours on deck, lolling in the
padded cane-chairs sipping coffee and gossiping as the steamer, with its
Arab _reis_ or pilot squatting in the bow smoking cigarettes, made her
way up the broad stream.

Thus, in the three delightfully lazy weeks which had gone, they had
become most excellent friends, while Chester Dawson had, with all the
irresponsibility of the young cavalry officer, admired a striking
go-ahead American girl named Edna Eastham who, with her father, had come
from Chelsea, Massachusetts.  Mother, father, and daughter were a
loud-speaking, hard-faced trio who bought all the false antiques offered
to them by Arab pedlars.

Mademoiselle's companion, a Miss Gabrielle Lambert, was a woman of quite
a different stamp.  She was nearly thirty, with a rather sad, thoughtful
face, but unmistakably a lady by birth and breeding, half English, half
French, though she never spoke much of herself.  Travelling with the two
girls was an old and peculiarly shrewd grey-haired Frenchman, an uncle
of mademoiselle named Jules Gigleux, a good type of the dandified though
elderly Parisian, yet to Hubert--a student of men--he was from the first
something of a mystery.

Ahmed, the silent dignified servant with the face of bronze, handed
mademoiselle a small plate of bon-bons.  She took one, and then turning
to the diplomat, exclaimed in her pretty broken English:

"I've at last persuaded uncle to take us up to Wady Haifa!  I'm longing
to see the Second Cataract.  We have booked berths by the steamer next
Monday."

"Next Monday!"  Waldron echoed.  "Why then we shall be fellow-passengers
again, mademoiselle.  I booked my berth a month ago.  I've been up there
before.  You will be much impressed by the rock-hewn Temple of Abu
Simbel, the finest and most remarkable sight on the Nile."

"I read all about it in the guide-books on board the _Arabia_," she said
with her pretty French accent.  "It is to see the wonderful temple that
I want to go there, although my uncle has been trying all day to put
obstacles in the way.  It takes a fortnight, and he seems to want to get
back to Paris--whatever for, I fail to imagine."

"He's tired of the Nile, like our young friend Chester," laughed Waldron
mischievously.  "I really believe Chester prefers a motor-run to
Brighton with lunch at Crawley and tea at the Metropole."

"All this jargon about Rameses, the great god, Osiris, good old Horus,
Amen Ra, and all those gods with weird heads of birds and horned
animals, the cartouches which the Pharaohs stuck upon everything--oh, it
becomes so horribly boring," declared the young fellow with a yawn.
"And everywhere one goes some Arab appears from nowhere pestering you to
buy an imitation scarab or some blue beads made in Birmingham a few
weeks ago.  Why on the _Prince Luitpold Regent_ from Marseilles we had a
man bringing over a fresh consignment of Egyptian antiques for the
season!  He showed me some!"

"Ah!" laughed Lola, "I see you are not held by the spell of Egypt, as we
all are.  Personally, I love it, and enjoy every moment of the day.  It
is all so very different to everything else I have seen."

"You have travelled a good deal, eh, mademoiselle?" asked Waldron, his
tea-cup in his hand.

"Ah, yes; a good deal.  I've seen most of the capitals of Europe," was
her rather vague reply.  "But there is nothing like Egypt--nothing half
so interesting as life up here, away from modern civilisation and yet so
full of up-to-date comfort.  I marvel at everything--even at this hotel.
They tell me all the food--even the fish and poultry--comes from
Europe.  All that we eat is brought a couple of thousand miles!"

"Yes," Miss Lambert agreed.  "The English have done marvels in Egypt
without a doubt."

Waldron glanced at Lola, and thought he had never seen her looking so
indescribably charming.  She was slightly flushed after riding that
afternoon, but in her neat, clean linen gown, with her green-lined
sun-helmet set slightly back on her head she presented a delightful
picture of feminine daintiness and charm.

At that moment Edna Eastham, a tall, well-built girl of twenty-two,
crossed the veranda laughing loudly over to two ladies of the party who
sat near, and took a vacant table for tea, whereupon Chester Dawson,
with a word of excuse, rose quickly and, crossing, joined her.

"Chester seems quite fed up," declared Waldron when the young fellow had
gone.

"Yes.  But he's coming with us up to Wady Haifa," said mademoiselle.

"Because Miss Eastham is going," remarked the diplomat with a sarcastic
smile.

"Perhaps so.  But do you know," she went on, "I've had such awful
trouble to persuade uncle to take me on.  He is anxious to get back to
Europe--says he has some pressing business and all that."

"The heat affects him, I believe; it is trying to one not used to it,"
the man replied.

"Yes.  But I think it would be a shame to turn back now that we have got
up here so far.  He was saying only last night that the trip up from
Shellal to Wady Haifa was not over-safe--that the Nubians are hostile,
and we might be attacked and murdered!"

"Not much fear of that nowadays," Waldron laughed.  "Our rule here has
straightened things out.  I admit, however, that there is a good deal of
hostility about here, and I believe there are arms on board the Shellal
steamers in case of trouble.  But we anchor each night in mid-stream and
a good watch is kept, while all the crew, though they are Arabs, have
been in the service of the Steamboat Company for many years, and are
quite loyal.  So don't be nervous in the least, mademoiselle, for I
assure you there is really no necessity."

"Uncle Jules is always fond of discovering dangers where none exist,"
she laughed.  "I haven't given the matter a second thought.  We are
going on Monday--and that is sufficient."

The broad-shouldered, rather dandified old Frenchman, Jules Gigleux,
sauntered out from the hotel and joined them a few moments later.  He
was rather stout, grey-haired--with a small, well-clipped moustache, and
a pair of sharp beady eyes which seemed to search everywhere--a man who,
though burly and apparently easy-going, was nevertheless remarkably
shrewd and sly.

These latter traits in Monsieur Gigleux's character had aroused Hubert's
suspicions.  He seemed ever watchful and curiously distrustful and
shifty--a man who, though he made pretence of being open and
straightforward and easy-going, was full of craft and deep cunning.

"Well, uncle," exclaimed Lola, dropping into French as the man seated
himself in the chair vacated by young Dawson, "we've just been
discussing the possibility of all of us being murdered by Arabs on our
way up to Wady Haifa!" and she laughed mischievously.

"It is not very safe," snapped the old gentleman in French.  "I hear
that the Egyptian police have a great deal of trouble to keep the
country in order between Shellal and Wady Haifa."

"Ah!"  Waldron exclaimed, "I fear, m'sieur, you are somewhat
misinformed.  That portion of the Nile runs through Upper Nubia, and the
people are more loyal to the British than they are even in Cairo."

"Cairo," sniffed the old man.  "Why, trouble is expected there every
day.  Sedition is rife all over Egypt.  If your Kitchener had not taken
such a strong hand a year ago the country would now be in open revolt.
The British are not loved in Europe.  I say that," he added quickly,
"without disrespect of your country, m'sieur, please understand."

"Perfectly," was the diplomat's reply.  "But while I admit what you say
is the truth, and, further, that there is a growing discontent, yet I
still feel that, as far as we are concerned, though a little handful of
Europeans and a great country peopled by Nubians, we are nevertheless
quite safe.  I was up there two years ago, and we did not even have a
police escort when we landed at Kalabsha or Abu Simbel--indeed, we never
saw a policeman."

"Ah, that was two years ago," remarked Monsieur Gigleux, quite
unconcerned.

"Oh, we shan't come to any harm, Uncle Jules," his niece assured him.
"I intend to have a real good time, M'sieur Waldron," added the girl,
who, having finished her tea, rose and went to the balcony, where she
stood alone watching the magnificent glories of the desert sunset.

Below, around the great grey boulders in the river came very slowly a
small Arab boat gaily painted in light green, with only just sufficient
wind to stretch its pointed lateen sail.  The three fisher lads which
constituted its crew were singing one of those weird, plaintive songs of
the Nile to the accompaniment of a big earthenware tom-tom--that same
tuneful invocation of Allah to assist them which one hears everywhere
upon the Nile from Alexandria up to Khartoum.

That strange, rhythmic song, the chorus of which is "Al-lal-hey!
Al-lal-hey!" is the song of the Nile and rings always in one's ears at
sundown--the reminder that Allah is great, Allah is merciful; there is
no other God but Allah.

But does that gay, Christian, tango-dancing, bridge-playing world of
Society, who in winter occupy that great white hotel opposite
Elephantine Island, ever heed that call of the black, half-naked, and,
alas! often starving Arab?  The call to Allah!

CHAPTER TWO.

AROUSES CERTAIN SUSPICIONS.

The great salle a manger of the Cataract is built like an Eastern
mosque.  Its interior is high domed, with old blue glass in the long
narrow windows, and walls striped in yellow and dull red.

At night the scene is gay and animated--a replica of the supper-room at
the Savoy--for over the thickly carpeted floor of the mosque, Society,
clad in the latest _mode_, dines and makes merry at many little tables
bright with electric lights and flowers, while the orchestra is just
near enough to be present.

Waldron and Chester had been invited to old Gigleux's table on their
arrival at Assouan; therefore on that evening the party was, as usual, a
merry one.  After dinner, however, the little party dispersed--Miss
Lambert to the reading-room, the old Frenchman to smoke, and Chester to
find Edna Eastham, leaving Waldron and Lola together.

The night was perfectly clear, with a bright and wonderful moon.

"Let's take a boat over to the Savoy?"  Waldron suggested.  "It's so hot
here."

Mademoiselle, who was in a simple, dead-white gown, with a touch of pale
salmon at the waist, was instantly agreeable, for a stroll through the
beautiful gardens of the Savoy Hotel, over on Elephantine Island, was
always delightful after dinner.

So she clapped her hands, summoning one of the Arab servants named
Hassan, and sent him to her room for her wrap.  Then when he had brought
it in his big brown hands and placed it upon her shoulders, the pair
descended through the garden of the hotel, where some boats were waiting
in the moonlight to take parties out for a sail in the light zephyr
which always rises on the Nile about nine o'clock each night.

"Good evenin', laidee," exclaimed the Arab boatman, salaaming, as the
pair stepped into his boat, for the man had often taken them out on
previous occasions; then two young Arabs followed, the boat was pushed
off, and the big heavy sail raised.

Waldron told the man where they wished to go.

"Ver gud, gen'leman," the big, brown-faced giant replied, salaaming, and
soon they were speeding across the face of the wonderful river into
which the moon and the lights of the town were reflected as in a mirror,
while the only sound was the faint ripple of the water at the bows.

"How delightfully refreshing after the heat," Lola exclaimed, pulling
her wrap about her and breathing in the welcome air to the full.

"Yes," replied her companion, lolling near her, smoking his cigarette.
He had on a light coat over his dinner clothes, and wore a straw hat.
"There is nothing in Europe like this, is there?"

"Nothing," she admitted.

And what he said was true.  The moon shone with that brilliancy only
witnessed in the East, and the dead silence of the river and the
limitless desert beyond was wonderfully impressive after that gay and
reckless circle which they had just quitted.

Presently the two young Arabs, who had been conversing with each other
in an undertone, spoke to their master--who apparently gave consent.

Waldron had offered each a cigarette from his case, receiving a pleased
grin and a salaam, and all were now in the full enjoyment of smoking.
They smoked on gravely until they had finished their gifts.

"'Merican steamer, he come from Cairo to-night," the boatman announced
as they approached the quay at Assouan.

"He means the new Hamburg-America passenger service," Waldron remarked,
and then, turning to the Arab who was busy with their sail, preparing to
tack, he asked him some questions regarding the steamer.

"He big steamer, gen'leman.  _Reis_, he know me--he know Ali."  And so
the Arab wandered on in his quaint English, for in Upper Egypt they are
all inveterate gossips.

Then the operation of tacking concluded, one of the younger men produced
a great cylinder of sun-baked clay, across the top of which was
stretched a piece of parchment, and placing it across his knees began
strumming upon it dexterously with his thumb, finger, and palm, after
which the dark-faced trio set up that long-drawn, plaintive song of the
Nile boatmen, in which Allah is beseeched to protect their beloved town,
which has existed ever since the Pharaohs--the town of Aswan.

The weekly steamer from Cairo, gaily lit and filled with Europeans, was
lying at the landing-stage.  Hearing the song which the trio in rhythmic
unison took up, a dozen or so Europeans in evening dress crowded to the
side to see who was passing.

Lola, delighted, hailed them in English.  They shouted back merry
greetings, and then Ali, their boatman, tacked again, and they were soon
sailing straight for the long, dark river-bank, where one or two lights
showed like fireflies among the palms, until they reached the darkly-lit
landing-stage on Elephantine, that little island whence, in the dim ages
of the Sixth Dynasty, sprang the Kings of Egypt, where the ancient gods,
Khnemu, Sati, and Anuquet were worshipped, and where the Pharaoh,
Amenophis III, built a temple.  Upon the site where the orgies of Hathor
were enacted is to-day the modern Savoy, where one can obtain a
whisky-and-soda or a well-mixed "Martini."  Other times, other manners.

On landing, Waldron and Lola strolled together along the moonlit,
gravelled path beside the river, and presently sat beneath a great
flowering oleander amid the thousand perfumes of that glorious tropical
garden with its wealth of blossom.

He noted that she had suddenly grown grave and silent.  Some people were
sitting upon a seat near, laughing gaily and chattering in English,
though in the deep shadow of the perfumed night they could not be seen.
At their feet the broad Nile waters lapped lazily, while from a native
boat in mid-stream came the low, rhythmic beating of a tom-tom as the
rowers bent to their oars.

"You seem very melancholy," remarked her companion suddenly.  "Why?"

"I--melancholy?" she cried in her broken English, suddenly starting.
"I--I really did not know, m'sieur.  Oh, please forgive me."

"No, I will not," he said with mock reproach.

"You mustn't be sad when I am with you."

"But I'm not sad, I assure you," she declared.  And then, noticing that
he was taking a cigarette from his case, she begged one.

Lola seldom, if ever, smoked in public, nevertheless she was
passionately fond of those mild aromatic cigarettes which one gets in
such perfection in Egypt, and often when with her friend, the
cosmopolitan diplomat, she would indulge in one.

She hated the conventions which so often she set at naught--thus earning
the reputation of a tomboy, so full of life and vivacity was she.

"Uncle is such a dreadful bore sometimes," she sighed at last, dropping
into French.  "I rather wish we were, after all, going back to Paris."

"He disagrees with you sometimes, eh?" laughed the man at her side.
"All elderly people become bores more or less."

"Yes.  But there is surely no reason for such constant watching."

"Watching!" exclaimed Waldron in feigned surprise.  "Is he annoyed at
this constant companionship of ours?"

"Well," she hesitated; "he's not exactly pleased.  He watches me like a
cat watches a mouse.  I hate his crafty, stealthy ways.  To-day I told
him so, frankly."

Waldron was considerably surprised at her sudden outburst of confidence,
for through all the weeks of their close acquaintanceship she had told
him but very little concerning herself.  But from what she had said he
gathered that she was entirely dependent upon her uncle, whose
strictness and eccentricities so often irritated her.

"Yes," she went on, "I've really grown tired of being spied upon so
constantly.  It is most annoying.  Gabrielle, too, is always telling
tales to him--telling him where I've gone, and how long I've been away,
and all that."

The man at her side paused.

"In that case," he said at last, "had we not better keep apart,
mademoiselle--if it would render your life happier?"

"I only wish I could get rid of that old beast," she cried wistfully.
"But, unfortunately, I can't.  I'm entirely and utterly in his hands."

"Why?" asked her companion slowly.

But she remained silent, until he had repeated his question.

"Why?  Well, because I am," was her vague, mysterious reply.

"Then he often complains of me?"  Waldron asked.

For answer she laughed a nervous little laugh.

"He doesn't like me, I suppose.  Well, there's no love lost between us,
I assure you, mademoiselle.  But if you think it best, then we will
exercise a wiser discretion in future."

"No, no," she replied hastily.  "You quite misconstrue my meaning,
M'sieur Waldron.  You have been exceedingly kind to me, but--" and then
she sighed without concluding her sentence.

Again a silence fell between them.

From across the broad dark waters, in the bosom of which the stars were
reflected, came the low, strident voices of the Arab boatmen chanting
their monotonous prayer to Allah to give them grace.  The still air was
heavy with a thousand sweet scents, while about them the big nocturnal
insects flitted and buzzed.

A peal of English laughter broke from out the deep shadows, and from
somewhere in the vicinity came the twanging of a one-stringed instrument
by an Arab, who set up one of those low, haunting refrains of the Nile
bank--the ancient songs handed down through the Pagan ages before the
birth of Christendom.

Waldron was reflecting deeply.  Old Gigleux had always been a mystery.
That he was a crafty, cunning old fox was undoubted, and yet he had, he
remembered, always treated him with marked friendliness.  It was
surprising that he should, on the other hand, object to his niece being
so frequently in his company.

Lola's companion questioned her regarding the mysterious old fellow, but
all she would reply was:

"There are certain matters, M'sieur Waldron, which I would rather not
discuss.  That is one of them."

With this chilly rebuff her companion was compelled to be content, and
no amount of diplomatic cross-examination would induce her to reveal
anything further.

"Ah," she cried at last, clenching her small hands and starting to her
feet in a sudden frenzy of despair which amazed him, "if you only knew
the horror of it all--ah! if you only knew, m'sieur, you would, I am
sure, pity me."

"Horror of it!" he gasped.  "What do you mean?"

"Nothing--nothing," she said hastily, in a voice thick with emotion.
"Let us return.  We must get back.  He will be so angry at my absence."

"Then you really fear him!"  Waldron exclaimed in surprise.

She made no reply.  Only as he laid his hand lightly upon her arm to
guide her back along the dark path to where the native boat was moored,
he felt her shudder.

He walked in silence, utterly bewildered at her sudden change of
demeanour.  What could it mean?  In his career as a diplomat in the
foreign capitals he had met thousands of pretty women of all grades, but
none so sweet or so dainty as herself; none with a voice so musical, not
one whose charm was so ineffable.

Yes, against his own inclination he had become fascinated by her, and
already he felt that her interests were his own.

They stepped into the boat, being greeted by salaams from the
black-faced crew, and then began to row back.

She uttered not a word.  Even when one of the boys brought out the big
tom-tom from beneath the seat, she signed to him to put it away.  Music
jarred upon her nerves.

Waldron sat in wonder, uttering no word, and the black-faced crew were
in turn surprised at the sudden silence.  Ali spoke some low, soft words
in Arabic to his companions which, had the pair been acquainted with
that language, would have caused them annoyance.  "They are lovers," he
remarked wisely.  "They have quarrelled--eh?"  And to that theory the
two boys agreed.

And so there was silence in the boat until it touched the landing-steps
opposite the great hotel, rising dark in the white desert moonshine.

On returning to his room Hubert Waldron found a telegram from Madrid
awaiting him.  It was from an intimate friend of his, signed "Beatriz."

He flung himself into a cane chair and re-read the long and rather
rambling message.  Then he rose, lit a cigarette savagely, and stood
gazing across the broad moonlit waters.  That telegram was a disquieting
one.  Its sender was Beatriz Rojas de Ruata, of the Madrid Opera, the
tall, thin, black-haired dancer, who had of late been the rage in
Petersburg and Paris, and who was now contemplating a season in London.

From life in the slums of Barcelona, where her father was a wharf
labourer, she had in three short years risen to the top of her
profession, and was now the idol of the _jeunesse doree_ of Madrid;
though, be it said, the only man she really cared for was the calm-faced
English diplomat who had never flattered her, and who had always treated
her with such profound and courtly respect.

But that message had sorely perturbed him.  It was an impetuous demand
that he should return from Egypt and meet her