"My engagement with Sir Marcus Lark ended when our train stopped at Khartum. I have other business to attend to here. I've just made my adieux with everybody else. I saved you till the last."

Monny was pale. Even the fresh young rose that was her mouth had blanched. Otherwise she controlled herself perfectly. Was this part of Anthony's plan? I wondered. He had told me what he intended to do at the Palace ball to-morrow night; but he had said nothing about this preliminary scene. I understood, however, why he had not manoeuvred to get Monny to himself, in a deserted corner of this big ground-floor balcony of the hotel. Even when with the Set it was a question of getting their tea, or looking at their rooms, eyes were always ready to observe Miss Gilder, especially since it was "in the air" that she really _was_ Miss Gilder--"_the_ Miss Gilder." He did not want Miss Ha.s.sett-Bean and Mrs. Harlow to be saying: "Look, my dear, at the tragic, private farewell Antoun Effendi and our American Beauty are having!" Since Philae, there would have been no use in trying to conceal his feelings for Monny from Brigit or me. Therefore we made useful chaperons, and could be regarded as dummies.

"You never told me you were leaving us at Khartum," the girl stammered.

"I thought--" But, though we knew what she thought, she could go no further before an audience.

"My business prevents me from staying at the hotel," Anthony explained.

"And--though I shall see you, never again will you see poor Ahmed Antoun."

"I don't understand," Monny said.

"I know. But that was what we agreed upon. You promised to trust me without understanding. To-morrow night, at the Sirdar's ball, you will understand. I've arranged with Lord Ernest that you and Mrs. Jones and Mrs. East and he shall write your names in the book at the Palace. Then you will all receive invitations for the ball; you four only, of the party."

"And you will be there?"

"I've just told you," Anthony repeated, "that Antoun is saying good-bye to you forever."

"Yet you told me, too, that after Khartum I should be hap--" She cut herself short, and shut her lips closely. I was angry with Fenton for what seemed cruelty to one who had very n.o.bly confessed her love for him. Biddy's eyes protested, too; but the man and the girl cared no more for us or our criticism, at that moment, than if we had been harmless, necessary chairs for them to sit upon.

"There are many paths to happiness," Fenton answered. "I shall see you to-morrow night, and I shall know whether you are happy. Meanwhile I say again--trust me. And good-bye."

He held out his strong, nervous hand, so browned by the sun that it needed little staining for the part he had played--and was to play no more. As if mechanically, Monny Gilder laid her hand in it. They looked into each other's eyes, which were almost on a level, so tall was she.

Then Antoun Effendi turned abruptly away, forgetting apparently that he had not taken leave of Brigit or me.

"Let's go upstairs at once, dear, and see our rooms," Biddy said quickly.

An instant later, I stood alone on the veranda. But I knew well enough where to find Captain Anthony Fenton when I wanted him, although the death knell of Antoun was sounding. I was not in the least melancholy, and despite the tense emotion of that short scene, I had never felt less sentimental in my life. My whole being concentrated itself in a desire to visit the post-office, and to bash Sir Marcus Lark's head.

When Anthony came up for his farewell I had been asking Brigit and Monny if they expected letters at the Poste Restante. Both said no, but advised by me, they gave me their cards, armed with which I could ask for letters and obtain them if there were any. "It's very unlikely any one will address me there," Biddy had a.s.sured me. "The only letter I'm hoping for will come to the hotel."

I was not jealous: because I was sure the said letter was from Esme O'Brien, now for weal or woe Mrs. Halloran. The letter I hoped for would be from a very different person, though if it materialized it would certainly mention the runaway bride. And if such a letter came to Khartum, the place to look for it, I thought, would be the Poste Restante. The writer not being a personal friend of Mrs. O'Brien, and presumably not knowing Khartum, could not be certain at which hotel she would stop.

I was hurrying away, a few minutes later, to prove once and for all whether I were a budding Sherlock Holmes or merely an imaginative fool, when a servant came out from the hotel and handed me a telegram.

"_Lark!_" I read the signature at the end with a snort of rage. "I wonder he has the cheek to--" But by that time I was getting at the meat of the message. "What the dev--by Jove! Here's a complication!" I heard myself mutter a running accompaniment to Marcus Lark's words--

This is what he had to say on two sheets of paper:

LORD ERNEST BORROW, Grand Hotel, Khartum:

In train leaving a.s.suan met man from Meroe told me work begun at our place strange news don't understand but sure you two haven't gone ahead of bargain must be foul play or else mistake but thought matter too serious go on north left train returned a.s.suan caught government steamer for Halfa just arrived too late for train de luxe but will proceed by ordinary train to camp better meet me there soon as possible leaving boat people take care of themselves. Wire Kabushia Lark.

His loyalty to us shamed me. We had not given him the benefit of the doubt, but had at once believed the worst. He, though "not a gentleman"

in the opinion of Colonel Corkran and some others, was chivalrously sure that we had "not gone ahead of the bargain!" A revulsion of feeling gave me a spasm of something like affection for the big fellow whom his adored Cleopatra sneered at as "common."

I longed to show the telegram to Anthony; but he would now be at the Palace, reporting to the Sirdar. Later he would be at his own quarters, transforming himself from a pale brown Hadji in a green turban into a sunburned young British officer in uniform. Meantime I would go to the Poste Restante, and then (whatever the result of the visit) I would return, collect Brigit and Monny, and take them to the Palace to write their names in the book.

I dare not think what my blood pressure must have been as I waited for a post-office official to look through a bundle of letters.

"Mrs. B. Jones," he murmured. "No, nothing for B. Jones--unless it's...o...b..ien Jones. Here's a letter addressed to Mrs. O'Brien Jones."

"That's it," said I, swallowing heavily, "Mrs. O'Brien Jones. I think the letter must be postmarked a.s.suan."

Without further hesitation the post-office man handed me the envelope, on the strength of Mrs. B. Jones' visiting card.

Going out of the office, I walked on air. "Sherlock Holmes it is!" I congratulated myself. And I ventured to be wildly happy, because it seemed to me that a letter sent to Mrs. O'Brien Jones, from a.s.suan, could mean only one thing; a justification of my theory.

I went straight to Biddy's door and knocked. There was no answer, and I stood fuming with impatience on the upstairs balcony, upon which each bedroom opens. It seemed impossible to live another minute without putting that letter into Biddy's hand. And not for the world would I have let it come to her from any one else. I was tempted to tear open the envelope, but before I had time to test my character, Biddy appeared on the balcony, coming round the corner from Monny's room.

"Why, Duffer! You look as if the sky had fallen!" she exclaimed.

"It has," I returned. "It's lying all over the place. There's a bit of it in this letter. A bit of heaven, maybe."

"A letter for me?"

"Yes. And if you aren't quick about opening it I'll commit hari kari."

She was quick about opening it.

As she read, almost literally my eyes were glued to her face. It went white, then pink. "Thank heaven!" I said within myself. If she had been pink first and white afterward, I should have been alarmed. For a woman's colour to blossom warmly from a snowfield, means good news.

"Duffer!" she breathed. "Do you--know--what's in this?"

"I--thought it would come." My voice sounded rather queer. I'd fancied I had more self-control. "That's why I--wanted your card--for the Poste Restante."

"Read this," she said, and gave me the open letter.

It was written on paper of a hotel at a.s.suan, near the railway station, and was as follows:

MADAM: Let me explain frankly before I go further, that my name is Thomas Macmahan. You may remember it. If you do, you will not think it strange that I--as a private person, as well as a member of a Society--whose name it is not necessary to mention--wanted certain papers you were supposed to possess. For a long time I, and others almost equally interested, tried to trace you, after learning that you had the doc.u.ments, or in any case knew where they were.

Naturally we were prepared to go far in order to make you give them up. We believed that your step-daughter was with you. As the need was pressing, and we had failed more than once, we would, if necessary, have worked upon your feelings through her. Had we questioned you, and you had replied that we were mistaken concerning the young lady and the papers, we should have been incredulous. But accident enabled us to hear from your own lips, details which we could not disbelieve. As a woman we wish you no harm, therefore we rejoice in this turn of events, for your sake. Your step-daughter must now be _one of us_, through her husband. She has nothing further to fear, much as we regret her marriage into a family so deeply injured by her father. As for you, Madam, you may be at rest where we are concerned. You said to Lord Ernest Borrow in the Temple of Abu Simbel, that you could never be happy, until the Organization Richard O'Brien betrayed, "forgot and forgave his daughter and yourself." Through me, the Organisation now formally both forgets and forgives.

Wishing you well in future, Yours truly,

T. MACMAHAN (alias Blount).

P. S. Kindly acknowledge receipt of this letter in care of Bedr el Gemaly whose address you have at Cairo. Not hearing from you, we shall try to communicate this news in some other way. The present method has occurred to us, as you may find it useful to know the state of affairs without delay.

"Oh, Biddy, _do_ you find it useful?" I asked.

She held out her hands to me. There was no one on the veranda just then and I kissed her.

"Mine!" I said. "What a gorgeous place Khartum would be, to be married in!"

Monny was very brave next day. She went to Omdurman with the rest of us. And it was the chance of a lifetime, because (through Anthony) Slatin Pasha himself took us to the place of his captivity: Slatin Pasha, slim, soldierly, young, vital and brilliant. It was scarcely possible to believe that this man, who looked no more than thirty-five, and radiated energy, could have pa.s.sed eleven years in slavery terrible beyond description. He spoke of those experiences almost lightly, as if telling the story of some one else, and it was "all in the day's work"