CLEOPATRA AND THE SHIP'S MYSTERY
Now, at last, I can skip over the three days at sea, and get to our
arrival at Alexandria, because, as I've said, the exciting part began
soon after, at Cairo.
They were delightful days, for the _Laconia_ is a Paris hotel disguised
as a liner. And no man with blood in his veins could help enjoying the
society of Brigit O'Brien and Rosamond Gilder. Cleopatra, too, was not
to be despised as a charmer; and then there was the human interest of
the _protégées_, the one with the eyes and the one who had reluctantly
developed into the Ship's Mystery.
Still, in spite of Biddy and Monny and the others, and not for them, my
heart beat fast when, on the afternoon of the third day out from
Naples, the ship brought us suddenly in sight of something strange. We
were moving through a calm sea, more like liquefied marble than water,
for it was creamy white rather than blue, veined with azure, and
streaked, as marble is, with pink and gold. Far away across this
gleaming floor blossomed a long line of high-growing lotus flowers,
white and yellow against a silver sky. The effect was magical, and the
wonder grew when the big flower-bed turned into domes and cupolas and
spires rising out of the sea. Unimaginative people remarked that the
coast looked so flat and uninteresting they didn't see why Alexander
had wanted to bother with it; but they were the sort of people who
ought to stop at home in London or Birmingham or Chicago and not make
innocent fellow-passengers burn with unchristian feelings.
Soon I should see Anthony and hear his news. I felt sure he would be at
Alexandria to meet the ship. When "Antoun Effendi" makes up his mind to
do a thing, he will crawl from under a falling sky to do it. As the
_Laconia_ swept on, I hardly saw the glittering city on its vast
prayer-rug of green and gold, guarded by sea forts like sleepy
crocodiles. My mind's eyes were picturing Anthony as he would look
after his wild Balkan experiences: brown and lean, even haggard and
bearded, perhaps, a different man from the smart young officer of
everyday life, unless he'd contrived to refit in the short time since
his return to Egypt--a day or two at most, according to my calculation.
But all my imaginings fell short of the truth.
As I thought of Anthony, Mrs. East came and stood beside me. I knew she
was there before I turned to look, because of the delicate tinkling of
little Egyptian amulets, which is her accompaniment, her _leit motif_,
and because of the scent of sandalwood with which, in obedience to the
ancient custom of Egyptian queens, she perfumes her hair.
I don't think I have described Monny Gilder's aunt, according to my
conception of her, though I may have hinted at Biddy's. Biddy having a
habit of focussing her sense of humour on any female she doesn't wholly
love, may not do Mrs. East justice. The fact is, Monny's aunt is a
handsome creature, distinctly a charmer who may at most have reached
the age when Cleopatra--Antony's and Caesar's Cleopatra--died in the
prime of her beauty. If Mrs. East chooses to date herself at thirty-three,
any man not a confirmed misanthrope must believe her. Biddy says
that until Peter Gilder was safely dead, Clara East was just an
ordinary, well-dressed, pleasure-loving, novel-reading,
chocolate-eating, respectable widow of a New York stockbroker:
superstitious perhaps; fond of consulting palmists, and possessing
Billikens or other mascots: (how many women are free from
superstition?) slightly oriental in her love of sumptuous colours
and jewellery; but then her mother (Peter Gilder's step-mother)
was a beautiful Jewish opera singer. After Peter's death, his
half-sister gave up novels for Egyptian and Roman history,
took to studying hieroglyphics, and learning translations of
Greek poetry. She invited a clairvoyant and crystal-gazer, claiming
Egyptian origin, to visit at her Madison Square flat. Sayda Sabri,
banished from Bond Street years ago, took up her residence in New York,
accompanied by her tame mummy. Of course, it is the mummy of a
princess, and she keeps it illuminated with blue lights, in an inner
sanctum, where the bored-looking thing stands upright in its
brilliantly painted mummy case, facing the door. About the time of
Sayda's visit, it was noticed by Mrs. East's friends (this, according
to Biddy) that the colour of the lady's hair was slowly but surely
changing from black to chestnut, then to auburn; she was heard to
remark casually that Queen Cleopatra's hair had been red. She took to
rich Eastern scents, to whitening her face as Eastern women of rank
have whitened theirs since time immemorial. The shadows round her
almond-shaped eyes were intensified: her full lips turned from
healthful pink to carmine. The ends of her tapering fingers blushed
rosily as sticks of coral. The style of her dress changed, at the
moment of going into purple as "second mourning" for Peter, and became
oriental, even to the turban-like shape of her hats, and the design of
her jewellery. She did away with crests and monograms on handkerchiefs,
stationery, luggage and so on, substituting a curious little oval
containing strange devices, which Monny discovered to be the
"cartouche" of Cleopatra. Then the whole truth burst forth. Sayda
Sabri's crystal had shown that Clara East, née Gilder, was the
reincarnation of Cleopatra the Great of Egypt. There had been another
incarnation in between, but it was of no account, and, like a poor
relation who has disgraced a family, the less said about it the better.
The lady did not proclaim her identity from the housetops. Rare souls
possessing knowledge of Egyptian lore might draw their own conclusions
from the cartouche on her note-paper and other things. Only Monny and a
few intimates were told the truth at first; but afterward it leaked
out, as secrets do; and Mrs. East seemed shyly pleased if discreet
questions were asked concerning her amulets and the cartouche.
Now, I never feel inclined to laugh at a pretty woman. It is more
agreeable, as well as gallant, to laugh with her; but the trouble is,
Cleopatra doesn't go in for laughter. She takes life seriously. Not
only has she no sense of humour, but she does not know the difference
between it and a sense of fun, which she can understand if a joke
(about somebody else) is explained. She is grateful to me because I
look her straight in the eyes when the subject of Egypt is mentioned.
Sheridan from Harvard has been in her bad books since he put Ptolemaic
rulers outside of the pale of Egyptian history, called their art ornate
and bad, mentioned that each of their queens was named Cleopatra and
classified the lot as modern, almost suburban.
Mrs. East, leaning beside me on the rail, was burning with thoughts
inspired by Alexandria. She had "Plutarch's Lives" under her arm, and
"Hypatia" in her hand. Of course, she dropped them both, one after the
other, and I picked them up.
"Do you know, Lord Ernest," she said, in the low, rich voice she is
cultivating, "I don't mind telling you that I felt as if I were coming
home, after a long absence. Monny wanted to see Egypt; I was dying to.
That's the difference between us."
"It's natural," I answered, sympathetically.
"Yes--considering everything. Yet we're both afraid. She in one way, I
in another. I haven't told her. She hasn't told me. But I know. She has
the same impression I have, that something's going to _happen_
--something very great, to change the whole of life--in Egypt: 'Khem,' it
seems to me I can remember calling it. You know it was Khem, until the
Arabs came and named it Misr. Do you believe in impressions like that?"
"I don't disbelieve," I said. "Some people are more sensitive than
others."
"Yes. Or else they're older souls. But it may be the same thing. I
can't fancy Monny an old soul, can you?--yet she may be, for she's very
intelligent, although so self-willed. I think what she's afraid of is
getting interested in some wonderful man with Turkish or Egyptian
blood, a magnificent creature like you read of in books, you know; then
you have to give them up in the last chapter, and send them away
broken-hearted. I suppose there _are_ such men in real life?"
"I doubt if there are such romantic figures as the books make out," I
tried to reassure her. "There might be a prince or two, handsome and
cultivated, educated in England, perhaps, for some of the 'swells' are
sent from Egypt to Oxford and Cambridge, just as they are in India. But
even if Miss Gilder should meet a man of that sort, I should say she
was too sensible and clear-headed--"
"Oh, she is, almost too much so for a young girl, and she has a
detestation for any one with a drop of dark blood, in America. She
doesn't even like Jews; and that makes friction between us, if we ever
happen to argue, for--maybe you don't know?--my mother was a Jewess.
I'm proud of her memory. But that's just _why_, if you can understand,
Monny's _afraid_ in Egypt. Some girls would like to have a tiny
flirtation with a gorgeous Eastern creature (of course, he must be a
bey, or prince or something, otherwise it would be _infra dig_), but
Monny would hate herself for being attracted. Yet I know she dreads it
happening, because of the way I've heard her rave against the heroines
of novels, saying she has no patience with them; they ought to have
more strength of mind, even if it broke their hearts."
I wondered if Biddy, too, suspected some such fear in the mind of her
adored girl, and if that were one reason why she had turned matchmaker
for my benefit. Since the first day out she had used strategems to
throw us together: and it seemed that, years ago, when she used to
teach the little girl French, Monny's favourite stories had been of
Castle Killeena, and my boyish exploits birds'-nesting on the crags.
(Biddy said that this was a splendid beginning, if I had the sense to
follow it up.)
"And you?" I went on to Mrs. East. "What do you feel is going to happen
to you in the land of Khem?"
"Oh, I don't know," she sighed. "I wish I did! And 'afraid' isn't
exactly the word. I just know that something will happen. I wonder if
history does repeat itself? I should hate to be bitten by an asp----"
"Asps are out of fashion," I comforted her. "I doubt if you could find
one in all of Egypt, though I remember my Egyptian nurse used to say
there were cobras in the desert in summer. Anyhow, we'll be away before
summer."
"I suppose so," she agreed. "Yet--who knows what will become of any of
us? Madame Rechid Bey will be staying, of course. I don't know whether
to be sorry for her or not. The Bey's good-looking. He has brown eyes,
and is as white as you or I. Probably it's true that she's been too
seasick to leave her room for the last ten days, though Monny and Mrs.
O'Bri--I mean, Mrs. Jones--think she's shut up because men stared, and
because Mr. Sheridan talked to her. As for me, there's always that
question asking itself in my mind: _'What_ is going to happen?' And I
hear it twice as loud as before, in sight of Alexandria. Rakoti, we
Lagidae used to call the city." As she spoke, the long, oriental eyes
glanced at me sidewise, but my trustworthy Celtic features showed a
grave, intelligent interest in her statements.
"It must be," she went on, encouraged, "that I'm the reincarnation of
Cleopatra, otherwise how _could_ I have the sensation of remembering
everything? There's no other way to account for it! And you know my
modern name, Clara, does begin with 'C.' Sayda must be right. She's
told lots of women the most extraordinary things. You really ought to
consult her, Lord Ernest, if you ever go to New York."
I did not say, as Neill Sheridan might, that a frothy course of
Egyptian historical novels would account for anything. I simply looked
as diplomatic training can teach any one to look.
Evidently it was the right look in the right place, for Cleopatra
continued more courageously, recalling the great Pharos of white marble
which used to be one of the world's wonders in her day; the Museum, and
the marvellous Library which took fire while Julius Caesar burned the
fleet, nearby in the harbour.
"Think of the philosophers who deserted the College of Heliopolis for
Alexandria!" she said. "Antony was more of a soldier than a student,
but even he grieved for the Library. You know he tried to console
Cleopatra by making her a present of two hundred thousand MSS. from the
library of the King of Pergamus. It was a generous thought--like
Antony!"
"Does the harbour looked changed?" I hastened to inquire.
"Not from a distance, though landing may be a shock: they tell me it's
all so Italian now. It was Greek in old days. I've read that there
isn't a stone left of my--of the lovely place on Lochias Point, except
the foundations they found in the seventies. But I must go to see
what's left of the Baths, even though there's only a bit of mosaic and
the remains of a room. Monny's anxious to get on to Cairo, but we shall
come back to Alexandria later. Lord Ernest, when I shut my eyes, I
really do seem to picture the Mareotic Lake, and the buildings that
made Alexandria the glory of the world. Do you remember what Strabo
said about Deinchares, the architect who laid out the plan of the city
in the shape of a Macedonian mantle, to please Alexander?"
"I'm not as well up in history as you are," I said, "though I've
studied a bit, because I was born in Egypt. Poor Alexander didn't live
long in his fine city, did he? I wonder what he'd think of it now? And
I wonder if his palace was handsomer than the Khedive's? That huge
white building with the pillars and domes. I seem to remember----"
"What, you remember, too? You _ought_ to consult Sayda!"
"I didn't mean exactly what you mean," I explained, humbly. "Still, why
shouldn't I have lived in Egypt long ago? The learned ones say you're
always drawn back where you've been in other states of existence----"
"That's true, I'm sure!"
"Well, then, why shouldn't I have the same sort of right to Egypt you
have, if you were Cleopatra?--I believe you must have been, because you
look as she ought to have looked, you know. Why shouldn't I have been a
friend of Marc Antony, coming from Rome to give him good advice and
trying to persuade----"
"Oh, _not_ that he ought to give me up!"
"No, indeed: to urge him to leave the island where he hid even from you
(didn't they call it Timoneum?). Why couldn't Antony play his cards so
as to keep Cleopatra and the world, too? She'd have liked him better,
wouldn't she? My friend Antoun Effendi--I mean Anthony Fenton,"--I
stopped short: for the less said about Fenton the better, at present.
But Cleopatra caught me up.
"What--have you really a friend Antony? Where does he live? and what's
he like?"
I hesitated; and glancing round for inspiration (in other words for
some harmless, necessary fib) I saw that Brigit and Monny had arrived
on the scene. They had been pacing the deck, arm in arm; and now,
arrested by Mrs. East's question, they hovered near, awaiting my answer
with vague curiosity. A twinkle in Biddy's eyes, which I caught,
rattled me completely. I missed all the easiest fibs and could catch
hold of nothing but the bare truth. There are moments like that, when,
do what you will, you must be truthful or silent; and silence fires
suspicion.
"What is he?" I echoed feebly. "Oh, Captain Fenton. He's in the Gyppy
Army stationed up at Khartum, hundreds of miles beyond where Cook's
boats go. You wouldn't be interested in Anthony, because he spells his
name with an 'H', and he's dark and thin, not a bit like _your_ Antony,
who was a big, stout fellow, I've always heard, and fair." "Big, but
_not_ stout," Cleopatra corrected me. "And--and if he's incarnated
again, he may be dark for a change. As for the 'H', that's not
important. I wonder if we shall meet your Anthony? We think of going to
Khartum, don't we, Monny?"
"Yes," said the girl, shortly. She was always rather short in her
manner at that time when in her opinion her aunt was being "silly."
I gathered from a vexed flash in the gray eyes that there had never
been any hint of an impending Antony.
"Is your friend in Khartum now?" Biddy ventured, in her creamiest
voice. The twinkle was carefully turned off like the light of a dark
lantern, but I knew well that "Mrs. Jones" was recalling a certain
conversation, in which I had refused to satisfy her curiosity. Brigit's
quick, Irish mind has a way of matching mental jigsaw puzzles, even
when vital bits appear to be missing; and if she could make a cat's paw
of Cleopatra, the witch would not be above doing it. I bore her no
grudge--who could bear soft-eyed, laughing, yet tragic Biddy a grudge?
--but I wished that she and Monny were at the other end of the deck.
"I--er--really, I don't know where my friend is just now," I answered,
with more or less foundation of truth.
"I wonder if I didn't read in the papers about a Captain Fenton who
took advantage of leave he'd got, to make a rush for the Balkans, and
see the fighting from the lines of the Allies?" Biddy murmured with
dreadful intelligence. "Can he be your Captain Fenton? I fancy he'd
been stationed in the Sudan; and he was officially supposed to have
gone home to spend his leave in England. Anyhow, there was a row of
some sort after he and another man dropped down on to the Turks out of
a Greek aeroplane. Or was it a Servian one? Anyhow, I know he oughtn't
to have been in it; and 'Paterfamilias' and 'Patriot' wrote letters to
the _Times_ about British officers who didn't mind their own business.
Why, I saw the papers on board this ship! They were old ones. Papers on
ships always are. But I think they came on at Algiers or somewhere."
"Probably 'somewhere,'" I witheringly replied. "_I_ didn't come on at
Algiers, so I don't know anything about it."
"Diplomatists never do know anything official, do they, Duffer dear?"
smiled Biddy. "I'll wager your friend is interesting, even if he does
spell himself with an 'H', and weighs two stone less than his namesake
from Rome. Mrs. East believes in reincarnation, and I'm not sure I
don't, though Monny's so young she doesn't believe in anything. Just
suppose your friend is a reincarnation of Antony without an 'H'? And
suppose, too, by some strange trick of fate he should meet you in
Alexandria or Cairo? You'd introduce him to us, wouldn't you?"
"It's the most unlikely thing in the world. And he'd be no good to you.
He's a man's man. He thinks he doesn't like women."
"Doesn't like women!" echoed Monny Gilder. "He must be a curmudgeon. Or
has he been jilted?"
"Rather not!" Too impulsively I defended the absent. "Girls go mad
about him. He has to keep them off with a stick. He's got other things
to think of than girls, things he believes are more important--though,
of course, he's mistaken. He'll find that out some day, when he has
more time. So far, he's been hunting other game, often in wild places.
A book might be written on his adventures."
"What kind of adventures? Tell us about them," said Biddy, "up to the
Balkan one, which you deny having heard of."
"You wouldn't care about his sort of adventures. There aren't any women
in them," said I. "Women want love stories. It's only the heroines they
care for, not the heroes, and I don't somehow see the right heroine for
Fenton's story."
I noticed an expression dawning on Cleopatra's face, as I thus bereft
her of a possible Antony (with an "H"). There was a softening of the
long eyes, and the glimmer of a smile which said "Am I Cleopatra for
nothing?"
Never had she looked handsomer. Never before had I thought of her as
really dangerous. I'd been inclined to poke fun at the lady for her
superstition and her cartouche, and Cleopatra-hood in general. But
suddenly I realized that her make-up was no more exaggerated than that
of many a beauty of the stage and of society: and that nowadays, women
who are--well, forty-ish--can be formidable rivals for younger and
simpler sisters. Not that I feared much for Anthony from Cleopatra or
any other female thing, for I'd come to consider him practically
woman-proof; still, I saw danger that the lady might make a dead set at
him, if she got the chance, and all through my stupidity in giving away
his name. "Antony" was a thrilling password to that mysterious "something"
which she expected to happen in Egypt: and already she regarded my
friend as a ram caught in the bushes, for a sacrifice on her altar.
Instead of screening him I had dragged him in front of the footlights.
But fortunately there was still time to jerk down the curtain.
I threw a glance at Brigit and Monny, and was relieved to find that
their attention was distracted by a new arrival: Miss Rachel Guest from
Salem, Massachusetts: a pale, thin, lanky copy of our Rose, with the
beauty and bloom left out; but a pair of eyes to redeem the colourless
face--oh, yes, a pair of eyes! Strange, hungry, waiting eyes.
When I am alone, I fear Monny's favourite _protégée_, who started out
to "see the world" on a legacy of two thousand dollars, and won Miss
Gilder's admiration (and hospitality) through her unassuming pluck. To
my mind she is the ideal adventuress of a new, unknown, and therefore
deadly type; but for once I rejoiced at sight of the pallid, fragile
woman, so cheerful in spite of frail health, so frank about her
twenty-eight years. She had news to tell of a nature so exciting that,
after a whisper or two, Cleopatra forgot Anthony in her desire to know the
latest development in the Ship's Mystery.
"My stewardess says he won't let his wife land till we're all off,"
murmured the ex-schoolmistress, in her colourless voice. "She heard the
end of a conversation, when she carried the poor girl's lunch to the
door--just a word or two. So we shan't see her again, I suppose."
"Oh, yes, we shall," said Monny. "If Wretched Bey can get a private
boat, so can I. I'll not desert her, if I have to stay on board the
_Laconia_ the whole night."
All four began talking together eagerly, and blessing Miss Guest I
sneaked away. Presently I saw that clever Neill Sheridan and handsome,
actor-like Willis Bailey, the two _bêtes noires_ of Wretched Bey, had
joined the group.
By this time the roofs and domes and minarets of Alexandria sparkled in
clearly sketched outlines between sunset-sky and sea; sunset of Egypt,
which divided ruby-flame of cloud, emerald dhurra, gold of desert, and
sapphire waters into separate bands of colour, vivid as the stripes of
a rainbow.
There was a new buzz of excitement on the decks and in the ivy draped
veranda café. Those who had been studying Baedeker gabbled history,
ancient and modern, until the conquest of Alexander and the bombardment
of '82 became a hopeless jumble in the ears of the ignorant. Bores who
had travelled inflicted advice on victims who had not. People told each
other pointless anecdotes of "the last time I was in Egypt," while
those forced to listen did so with the air of panthers waiting to
pounce. A pause for breath on the part of the enemy gave the wished-for
opportunity to spring into the breach with an adventure of their own.
We took an Arab pilot on board--the first Arab ever seen by the ladies
of my party--and before the red torch of sunset had burned down to
dusky purple, tenders like big, black turtles were swimming out to the
_Laconia_. We slaves of the Rose, however, had surrendered all personal
interest in these objects. The word of Miss Gilder had gone forth, and,
unless Rechid Bey changed his mind at the last minute, we were all to
lurk in ambush until he appeared with his wife. Then, somehow, Monny
was to snatch her chance for a word with the Ship's Mystery; and
whatever happened, none of us were to stir until it had been snatched.
Arguments, even from Biddy, were of no avail, and mine were silenced by
cold permission to go away by myself if I chose. It was terrible, it
was wicked to talk of people making their own beds and then lying in
them. It was nonsense to say that, even if the wife of Rechid Bey asked
for help, we could do nothing. Of course, we would do something! If the
girl wanted to be saved, she should be saved, if Monny had to act
alone. Whatever happened, Mr. Sheridan and Mr. Bailey must remain in
the background, as the very sight of them would drive "Wretched Bey"
_wild!_
I was thinking of Anthony's surprise when one after the other, two
tenders should reach the quay without me; and if the Gilded Rose had
not been so sweet, her youthful cocksureness would have made me yearn
to slap her. In spite of all, however, the girl's excitement became
contagious as passengers crowded down the gangway and Rechid Bey did
not appear.
"Allah--Allah!" cried the boatman and the Arab porters as they hauled
huge trunks off the ship onto a float. Then one after the other the two
tenders puffed away, packed from stem to stern. A few people for whom
there was no room embarked in small boats manned by jabbering Arabs.
Two of these cockle-shells still moved up and down under the black,
mountainous side of the ship, and the officer whose duty it was to see
the passengers off was visibly restless. He wanted to know if my
lordship was ready; and my lordship's brain was straining after an
excuse for further delay, when a man and woman arrived opportunely;
Rechid Bey and a veiled, muffled form hooked to his arm; a slender,
appealing little figure: and through the veil I fancied that I caught a
gleam of large, wistful, anxious eyes.
The ladies were lying in wait out of sight, and I dodged behind the
sturdy blue shoulders guarding the gangway. This was my first glimpse
of the Ship's Mystery; and though I did not like my job (I had to
surprise Rechid Bey and take his mind off his wife) my curiosity was
pricked. The figure in sealskin looked very girlish; the veiled head
was bowed. The mystery took on human personality for me, and Monny
Gilder was no longer obstinate; she was a loyal friend. I did not see
that we could be of use to the poor little fool who had married a Turk,
yet I was suddenly ready to do what I could. As Rechid Bey brought his
wife to the top of the gangway, I lounged out, and spoke. Disconcerted,
the stout, good-looking man of thirty let drop the arm of the girl,
putting her behind him. And this was what Monny wanted. They would have
an instant for a few disjointed words: Monny might perhaps have time to
promise help which the girl dared not ask, even behind her husband's
back.
"Good evening," I said in French, taking advantage of a smoke-room
acquaintance. "Is that smart boat down there for you? I was trying to
secure it, in my best Arabic, but the fellow said it was engaged."
"Yes, it is mine," Rechid answered, civilly, trying to hide his
annoyance. "I telegraphed from Naples to a friend in Alexandria to send
me a private boat. I do not like crowds."
"Neither do I, so I waited, too," I explained. "They told me there were
always boats, and my big luggage has gone. I suppose yours has, too?"
"No doubt," said Rechid Bey. "Good night, Milord Borrow."
He turned quickly to his wife, as if to catch her at something, but the
slim veiled mystery stood meekly awaiting his will. To my intense
relief Monny and her friends were invisible. I could hardly wait until
the two figures had passed out of sight down the gangway, to know
whether my skirmishing attack had been successful.
"Well?" I asked, as Miss Gilder, "Mrs. Jones," Cleopatra, Rachel Guest,
and two maids filed out from concealment. "Did I give you time enough?
Did you get the chance you wanted?"
"Yes, thank you ever so much," said Monny, with one of those dazzling
smiles that would make her a beauty even if she were not the favourite
Sunday supplement heiress. "I counted on you--and _she_ had counted on
me. She must have known I wouldn't fail her, for she had this bit of
paper ready. When I jumped out she slipped it into my hand. We didn't
need to say a word, and Wretched Bey has no idea I came near her."
"A bit of paper?" I echoed, with interest. For it sounded the obvious
secret thing; a bit of paper stealthily slid from hand to hand.
"Yes, with her address on it--nothing more in writing: but two other
words, pricked with a pin. '_Save me._' Don't you see, if her husband
had pounced on it, no harm would have been done. He wouldn't have
noticed the pin-pricks, as a woman would. I thought she was going to
live in Cairo, and I believe she thought so too, at first. But she's
written down the name of a house in a place called Asiut. Did you ever
hear of such a town, Lord Ernest?"
"Oh, yes," said I. "The Nile boats stop there and people see tombs and
mummied cats and buy silver shawls."
"Good!" said Monny. "_My_ boat shall stop there, but not only for tombs
or cats or silver shawls. I have an idea that the poor girl is
frightened, and wants me to help her escape."
"Great heavens!" I exclaimed. "You mustn't on any account get mixed up
in an adventure of that sort! Remember, this is Egypt----"
"I don't care," said Monny, "if it's the moon."
She believed that this settled the matter. I believed the exact
opposite. But I left it at that, for the moment, as the boat was
waiting, and Asiut seemed a long way off.
This was my first lesson in what Brigit called "Monny's little ways";
but the second lesson was on the heels of the first.