all the face of nature. During all the full hours of theday that rigid desert ruin, where lay the valley of the tombs of thekings, had seemed to repel, to warn back, to caution that there lay thelimit beyond which the human being might not go. But in the fallinglight it had surrendered, and in its softer appearance it seemed topromise that it, like destiny and death, would surrender its uttermostsecrets to those whose hearts were brave enough to approach it withoutfear.
The tea interval was over, and it was the lazy hour before dinner. Mostof the travellers were in their cabins dressing, for the European everclings to the dinner-jacket or evening blouse. On board that smallsteamer were men--Englishmen, Frenchmen, and Americans--whose wealthcould be reckoned at over a hundred millions sterling, men who wore badhats and rather shabby clothes, but whose women-kind were alwaysloud-speaking and bizarre. Truly the winter world of Egypt is a strangeone of moneyed leisure, of reckless extravagance, and of all the modernvices of this our twentieth-century world.
The white steamer, with its silent, pensive reis squatting in the bowswith his eternal cigarette, ever watchful of the appearance of the broadgrey-green waters, puffed onward around the sudden bend.
To the east, the Arabian Desert--beautiful beyond words, but where, savein a few narrow oases, Nature forbade the habitancy of man--stretchedaway to the Red Sea and far on into Asia. And to the west, frowning nowas though in hatred of the green Nile with its fertility, lay the LibyanDesert, which, with its great mother the Sahara, held so much of Africain its cruel grasp, and which was as unlovely and repelling as itssister of Arabia was bright and beautiful.
And Egypt--the Egypt of life and fertility, of men and history,tradition, and of modern travel--lay a green and smiling land betweenthe two deserts as a human life lies between the two great eternitiesbefore birth and after death; or as a notable writer once put it: as themoment of the present lies between the lost past and the undiscoveredfuture.
Waldron had already dressed, and was lying back in a long deck-chairenjoying a cigarette, and gazing away at the crimson sunset, when atall, thin-faced man of thirty passed along the deck. He, too, was inthe conventional dinner-jacket and black cravat, but to hisfellow-travellers he was a mystery, for ever since joining them at Wady,Haifa he had kept himself much to himself, and hardly spoken to anyone.
His name was Henri Pujalet, and he was from Paris. His father, HenriPujalet, the well-known banker of the Rue des Capucines, had died twoyears before, leaving to his eldest son his great wealth. That was allthat was known of him.
Only Hubert Waldron knew the truth--the secret of Lola's love.
"Ah, my dear friend!" he cried in his enthusiastic French way as heapproached the Englishman. "Well--how goes it?"
"Very well, thanks," responded the diplomat in French, for truth to tellhe had cultivated the stranger's acquaintance and had watched withamused curiosity the subtle glances which Lola sometimes cast towardshim.
The secret lover sank into a chair at the diplomat's side and slowly lita cigarette.
He was a good-looking--even handsome--man, with refined and regularfeatures, a smiling, complacent expression, and a small, well-trimmedmoustache. But his cheek-bones were high, and his eyes rather narrowlyset. To-day no young Frenchman--as was the fashion ten years ago--wearsa beard. Time was when the beard was carefully oiled, perfumed, trimmedand curled. But to-day the fashion in France is a hairless face--as inAmerica and in England.
Waldron examined his companion for the hundredth time. Yes, he was amystery. He had given the name of Pujalet to the steward, but was thathis real name? Was he the son of Pujalet, the dead banker of the Ruedes Capucines?
Old Gigleux often chatted with him, for were they not compatriots? Butthe white-headed old fellow apparently held no suspicion that he was hisniece's secret lover who had travelled those many miles from Europe inorder to be near her.
The situation was not without its humours. Of all the persons on boardthat gay crowd returning to Cairo to spend New Year's Day, only HubertWaldron knew the truth. And as a diplomat he stood by and watched insilence, aware that the looker-on always sees most of the game.
He had had many amusing chats on deck and in the smoking-room with HenriPujalet, whom he had found to be a much more cosmopolitan person than hehad at first imagined. He seemed to know Europe well--even Madrid--forhe spoke of certain dishes at the Lhardy and the excellence of the winesat the Tournie in the Calle Mayor, of the "Flamenco" at the Gate Nero,and the smart teas in the ideal room in the Calle de Alcata; all ofwhich were familiar, of course, to Waldron.
Equally familiar to him was Petersburg, with Cubat's and such-likeresorts; he knew the gay Boulevard Hotel in Bucharest, and theexcellence of its sterlet, the Nazionale and "Father Abraham's" in Rome;the Hungaria in Budapest, the Adlon in Berlin, the Pera Palace inConstantinople, as indeed most of the other well-known resorts to whichthe constant traveller across Europe naturally drifts at one time oranother.
That Henri Pujalet was a cosmopolitan was perfectly clear to hiscompanion. Yet he was, as certainly, a man of mystery.
Hubert Waldron, a shrewd observer and a keen investigator of anythingappertaining to mystery, watched him daily, and daily became more andmore interested.
His suspicions were aroused that all was not quite right. Pujalet'sattitude towards Lola was quite remarkable. Not by the slightest glanceor gesture did he give away his secret. To all on board he was tomademoiselle a stranger, and, moreover, perfectly oblivious to her veryexistence.
The two men chatted idly until suddenly the dinner-gong was sounded by ablack-faced, grinning Nubian, who carried it up and down the deckbeating it noisily.
Then he descended to the big white-and-gold saloon, where a few momentslater there assembled a merry, chattering, and laughing crowd.
In the midst of dinner Waldron rose from the table and ascended to theupper deck and got his handkerchief. As he approached his cabin,however, he saw someone leave it, and disappear round the stern of thevessel. The incident instantly impressed itself upon his mind as acurious one, and in his evening slippers he sped lightly to the end ofthe deck and gazed after the receding figure of the fugitive.
It was Henri Pujalet!
Waldron returned instantly to his cabin in wonder why the Frenchman hadintruded there.
As far as he could see nothing had been disturbed. All was in order,just as he had left it after dressing.
Only one object had been moved--his small, steel, travellingdispatch-box, enclosed in its green canvas case. This, which had beenupon a shelf, was now lying upon the bed. The green canvas cover hadbeen unfastened, displaying the patent brass lock by the famous maker.
It had been examined and tampered with. An attempt had, no doubt, beenmade to open it, and the person who had made that attempt was none otherthan the tall, good-looking man who had so swiftly and silentlydescended to the saloon and now, unnoticed, retaken his place at dinner.
"Well," gasped Waldron, taking out his keys and unlocking the steel boxto reassure himself that his private papers were intact, "this iscurious--distinctly curious, to say the least!"
CHAPTER SEVEN.
THE NIGHT OF THE GOLDEN PIG.
It wanted thirty minutes to midnight.
The New Year's Eve fun at Shepheard's Hotel in Cairo was fast andfurious.
Ministerial officers and their women-folk, British officers of thegarrison, officials and their wives from all parts of Egypt, Societyfrom the other hotels, and a sprinkling of grave, brown-faced Egyptiangentlemen in frock coats and fezes, all congregate here to dine, todance, to throw "serpentines," and to make merry by touching the goldenpig--a real pig covered with gold paint--at the coming of the New Year.
That night was no exception, for the _salons_ were crowded tooverflowing, champagne flowed freely, and everyone laughed heartily atthe various antics of the great assembly. Cosmopolitan it was, in everysense of the word, for most European languages could be heard there. Inthe ballroom a great dance was in pr
ogress, while the supper-room wascrowded to suffocation, and in the big _salons_ one could hardly moveabout so dense was the well-dressed crowd.
Upon this scene Hubert Waldron gazed when he arrived in a cab from theSavoy. Though Lola, her uncle, and Miss Lambert had, on landing,obtained rooms at Shepheard's, the Englishman had failed to do so, andhad therefore gone to the Savoy, whither Henri Pujalet had also gone, aswell as Chester Dawson, the Easthams, and several other members of theparty.
Already they had been in Cairo three days, and though Waldron hadwatched Pujalet continuously, the lovers had not held any clandestinemeeting.
As he elbowed his way through that New Year's Eve crush in the bigOriental lounge, however, he suddenly--came upon the pair. Lola, herface beaming with supreme pleasure, was dressed in simple, yet becomingtaste in turquoise blue, with a touch of the same colour in her darkhair, while the Frenchman, erect and well-groomed, presented aparticularly smart appearance. Neither noticed