McClure's Magazine/Volume 55/Number 9/Lady Hounslow's Charity

by H. C. McNeile

 

Illustration: “Mrs. Dallas gave a little cry as I stepped into the summerhouse and bowed deeply before her”

 

Lady Hounslow's Charity

Jim Maitland Plays “The Great Game” with Human Hearts at Stake

By Major H. C. McNeile
illustrations by G. W. Gage

LADY HOUNSLOW, wife of Sir George Hounslow, is a very wonderful woman, as is only right and proper in the wife of a Cabinet Minister. As all the world knows, she has the gift of giving just the right dinner parties to just the right people. She also has the gift of flirting so mildly that not even the most censorious can really call it flirting—and she does it with just the right men. Private secretaries adore her—she is so impartially charming to them all! Under secretaries ask her advice, and not infrequently take it. And, of course, her labors on behalf of charity are too well known to need description.

In fact, it was only the other day that she came down to open the new wing of the hospital in the village near Jim Maitland's house. A local deputation, with cinematograph operator complete, met her at the station, and she flashed her well-known smile on all those waiting on the platform, as she stood for a moment framed in the carriage door. Then she entered the waiting motor car, the band delivered itself of a noise, and the ceremony proper started.

It was a ghastly performance, as such ceremonies invariably are, and why Jim insisted on attending it puzzled both his wife and me. He would give no reasons, but smiled inscrutably, and when the actual opening was over, we found ourselves sitting in the second row in the village school waiting for the speeches.

Lady Hounslow specialized in little speeches—charming little speeches in which she said just the right thing. And if each charming little speech brought a peerage for her husband one step closer—well, surely the laborer is worthy of her hire.

And that afternoon was no exception. She listened prettily to the perspiring effort of the mayor; then, when the cheering had subsided, she rose to her feet. Just three minutes—no more—was her invariable rule. And for two minutes she rippled on, her theme being the sacred cause of devoting one's energy, one's time and one's money to the sick.

“Was it possible,” she asked, “for us, who were the full possession of our health, who were endowed, perhaps, a little more than some others with this world's goods—though in these days of this dreadful Income Tax it was only very little—was it possible to do too much for the sick and suffering?”

HER sweet, pathetic smile as she said it drew a sympathetic response from her audience, which changed suddenly to a murmur of alarm. For, with amazing suddenness, the sweet smile faded from her lips, to be replaced by what was almost a look of terror. There was a hunted expression in her eyes and her cheeks showed blotchy through the make-up. There were lines in a face grown strangely haggard, as she faltered and swayed toward her chair. And she was staring at Jim Maitland.

In an instant a doctor was beside her, and the reporter sitting near by heard her murmur something about the heat. Not surprising, of course; opening hospitals is tiring work for frail and delicate women. But it ended the meeting, and in the general confusion we departed. But when we reached the door Jim stopped and deliberately turned around. Over the heads of the people he stared at the platform, and after a moment or two their eyes met. And in hers terror had been replaced by defiance.

Then Jim swung on his heel and we left. For a while he strode along in silence; then, as the band started playing again behind us, he stopped suddenly and laughed rather grimly.

“Wife of a Cabinet Minister,” he remarked thoughtfully. “A leader of philanthropic work in this country; probably a future peeress of the realm! And rotten—utterly rotten to the core.”

“But, Jim, I thought she was charming,” protested his wife.

Jim laughed again, without replying. Then abruptly he turned to me.

“You don't mean to say you've forgotten her, Dick?” he said.

Now as she had stepped upon the platform some vague chord of memory had stirred in my mind, but it had remained at that.

“Of course you didn't see her as much as I did,” went on Jim. “And it was some time ago. But don't you remember Mrs. Dallas, in Cairo?”

“But you don't mean to say——” I began, and Jim grinned.

“But I do mean to say,” he said. “Mrs. Dallas and Lady Hounslow are one and the same person. And for a month I traveled up the White Nile with Mrs. Dallas. She did what she wanted, and she found what she wanted, and she proved herself to be what I said she was—a rotten woman, rotten to the core.”

AND now memory was stirring in earnest. Continuing on our homeward journey, we had left the Andaman at Port Said. And the first person we ran into was a dark-skinned man in European clothes who halted dead in his tracks as he saw Jim. Then, without a word, he turned away down a side street, and Jim promptly started to follow him.

“Wait for me at the hotel,” Jim said to me, and there was a gleam in his eyes that had not been there a moment before.

It was an hour before he rejoined me, and the gleam was more pronounced than ever.

“Dick,” he said. “I'm going on in the Andaman as far as Malta. Wonderful sea bathing in Malta in August and September. I'm going to spend all day and every day bathing. Care to come? You'll probably get some polo at the Marsa.”

“Somewhat sudden,” I murmured mildly. “What's the game?”

“It's the game, Dick—the Great Game. The only game in the world worth playing. Sometimes I've been tempted to chuck roving and take to it permanently. Do you know who that fellow was that I followed?” he demanded.

“An Egyptian of sorts, I suppose,” I answered indifferently; wondering meanwhile at his curious air of suppressed excitement.

“That was Victor Head, of the Loamshires, temporarily seconded for service with the Government. He's officially A.D C., I believe, to some general, and he's been on leave of absence for a year.” Jim grinned. “That's the sort of general to have.”

Suddenly his meaning dawned on me.

“Secret service work!” I cried.

Jim lifted a deprecating hand.

“Let us call it research work among the native population,” he murmured. 'You don't suppose, do you, old man, that the British Government runs five hundred million black men here and in India by distributing tracts to 'em?”

“But why Malta?” I asked, harking back. “What about Alexandria? There's excellent bathing there. And Malta's a deuced unpleasant place at this time of year.”

“One doesn't get that wonderful goat smell at Alexandria,” he remarked, and his eyes were twinkling. “I know the actual rock, Dick, where one can lie and bask in the sun. Coming?”

It was an unnecessary question, and three days later found us in Valletta. A sirocco was blowing, and of all the foul winds that blow upon this universe the sirocco in Malta during the hot months has many strong claims to the title of foulest.

But Jim was in absolutely irrepressible spirits, and departed at once to commune with a certain staff officer. I went with him to be officially introduced, and then I faded out of the picture, for they spoke in a strange cryptic jargon. But I saw that the staff officer's eyes were gleaming even as Jim's.

TO one who has played the game himself, the call of it is always there. But it wasn't a long interview, and it ended with the officer giving orders that a “Tent Bell., G. 5, one complete with pole,” should be placed at our disposal for as long as we needed it. And an hour later we left the Union Club in a cab with our tent bell and drove away toward the west. We passed St. Paul's Bay and at last, after an uncomfortable hour or two, we came to the end of the island.

Below us lay a little bay with the water gleaming gold in the setting sun. We scrambled down the cliff, and put up our tent on a patch of sand that seemed especially placed to catch the sun's hottest rays.

“There is the very spot I used last time, Dick,” said Jim, pointing to a great sandstone rock jutting out into the sea. “And let us pray to Allah that there are rather fewer mixed bathing parties for our present effort. They always come in the hottest part of the day, and I reckoned that they made me take a week longer to cook than I anticipated.”

He laughed at my look of mystification, and then proceeded to explain—partially, at least—the meaning of his incomprehensible words.

Illustration: “I took her to see him, dragged her there—whimpering; and I held her there while she looked on the evidence of her handiwork”

“That's what we've come here for, old man. I've got to cook in the sun, and you can take it from me that I turn into the choicest mahogany you've ever seen. But the red, blistery stage is confoundedly painful, and it's dull cooking alone. So if you don't mind keeping me company, and doing the grub side of the business, I shall be infernally grateful.”

They're pretty thorough—the men who play that game. When there aren't any rules, and a slip may mean a singularly unpleasant death, they have to be. And Jim was taking no chances.

A stain, I gathered from what he told me, was all right for a one or two day show, but when it came to a question of weeks there was nothing like the permanent stain of the sun.

And so, like a chicken revolving on a spit, did Jim rotate on that rock, only ceasing when the sound of feminine voices announced the arrival of a bathing party. Then, with horrible maledictions, he would retire into the tent until they departed.

It took four weeks before he was satisfied, and I certainly would never have thought such a result possible. His skin had turned the dark brown of the typical Berber, and when he walked with the superb dignity of those sons of the desert it was difficult to believe that he was an Englishman at all.

AND then one day he disappeared. Mysteriously the necessary clothes had arrived from somewhere; as I have said, there was a staff officer in Valletta who had played the Game himself. And to him I went for further information. But they're an uncommunicative lot—the players—and beyond a vague allusion to Tripoli the staff officer was noncommittal.

“The season in Cairo will be beginning soon,” he remarked. “A P. & O. is calling tomorrow. Why not go and wait there?”

“Have you any idea how long he will be?” I asked.

“Two months—six. Who knows? You might return the bell tent to Ordnance, if you will.”

And so I went back to Cairo, and waited. It was there that I met Mrs. Dallas. Little by little memories of her came back to me. She was a charming, attractive widow, with subalterns buzzing round her like flies around a jam pot. And it was there, of course, that she must have met Hounslow; he was out there at the time on some Government investigation. But that was all I could remember, and I told Jim so as we sat in the garden having tea.

“What is this secret passage of your life, old man?” I demanded. “I'd have you know, Mrs. Jim, that he left me at Malta with the avowed intention of doing some secret service work. And he has the audacity to state that he traveled for a month with a lady who, if I remember aright, was known in Cairo as the 'subaltern's peril.' I am of the opinion that further elucidation is necessary.”

Jim grinned, and proceeded to fill his pipe.

“Well, on the understanding that it goes no further, I'll gratify your vulgar curiosity,” he remarked. “After all, it's ancient history now, but there's no good stirring up mud, even if it were possible to do so. Presumably Sir George Hounslow is satisfied with his bargain, and it would be a pity to disillusionize him. Though had he known at the time what I knew, infatuated though he was, I think that he would have thought twice about marrying her. I debated in my mind whether Id tell him, and finally decided not to. There's quite enough trouble in this world already without making more, and, anyway, he wouldn't have believed me.

“You know, of course, what the situation was at that time. No? I thought it was pretty widely discussed by the Army out there. Well, in brief—though this point has nothing to do with Mrs. Dallas as she then was—the Germans had begun their tricks. They were working tooth and nail for a jehad to take place in August, 1914. A general revolt of Islam to coincide with the World War was their idea, and it is significant that one of their agents mentioned the actual date to me, eighteen months before. He thought he was talking to a fanatical Mohammedan, and he became a little indiscreet.

“However, my job when I left you in Malta was a general contre-espionage one, to find out just how wide-spread the influence was and feel the pulse of the natives. There were ten of us on it, and between us we got in eight reports. But that's another story altogether; let's get down to my Lady Hounslow.

“He was known as Number 10—the man who lived many days' journey up the White Nile. Who he was, exactly, no one knew; at least, if any one did it was not shouted abroad. Officially, his name was Brown, and he was new to me. But I found that every one else who was on the Game knew him, and I also found that Headquarters in Cairo placed great reliance on him. Three years previously he had suddenly appeared on the scene out of the blue, and there he had remained ever since—buried. With the help of a little quinine and a few simple medicines, he had established a big reputation as a doctor among the natives. And the Powers That Be kept him supplied with those medicines—because a reputation of that sort among the natives is a valuable asset when it is held by the right man.

“It was Victor Head, I think, who first discovered that he was the right sort of man. He ran across him by accident, and got from him some information which at first sight seemed to be not only unlikely, but absurd. And it turned out to be correct. Then another fellow tried him out, and once again he put up the goods. Certain inquiries were made, and in due course he became Number 10. I confess I was a little anxious to see him. He was quite a young man, I gathered, and it seemed strange for a young man to bury himself in such a way, however much he might be actuated by a desire to serve his country.

“And at last I did meet him. He was doctoring a couple of natives at the time, and, having given him the usual Arab greeting and the sign by which those in the Game can recognize one another, I sat down on the ground and studied him. I placed him at about five-and-thirty—a thin, wiry, sunburned man. To all outward appearance he seemed fit and healthy, but there was something about him—it was his eyes, I think—that made me wonder whether he was really well.

“WHEN the natives had departed and after we had gone through the customary formalities of meeting, for the benefit of possible onlookers, I rose and followed him into his house.

“'You're new,' he said, when we were alone.

“'New to you,' I answered, 'but not to the Game, though I haven't been on it for some years.'

“Then, for a while, we discussed matters irrelevant to this story. But at last Number 10 allowed himself to turn to matters personal.

“'Are you going back to Cairo direct?' he asked, and when I told him I was he began walking up and down the room with quick, excited steps.

“'Will you do something for me?' he asked finally.

“'Of course,' I answered. 'What is it?'

“'There's a girl in Cairo,' he said, and his voice was shaking a little. 'Her name is Dallas—Mrs. Dallas—and I've just heard that she arrived there a month ago. Will you find her for me, and say to her: Jack is waiting. It is quite safe.'

“Then he paused suddenly and stared at me.

“'They are pleased with me, aren't they, at Headquarters? I've done pretty well?'

“'Very,' I answered, feeling a little puzzled as to what all the mystery was about. 'As far as I know they're delighted with your work.'

“'I mean, I'm useful to them. They—they won't let me be taken away?'

“'Who is there to take you away?' I asked, staring at him. The perspiration was glistening on his face, and his hands were trembling. 'It strikes me, Brown,' I went on quietly, 'that you're not too fit. You dish out medicine to these natives, when somebody ought to be doing the same to you.'

“'It's nothing!' he cried. 'I'm all right. If only I didn't get these awful night sweats.'

“Suddenly he started to cough, and I didn't need to be a doctor to tell what was the matter with him.

“'I want you to tell her that it is quite safe,' he gasped, when he'd recovered from the paroxysm. 'Impress it on her that there's no danger. She will understand what you mean.'

“All right,' I said. 'I will certainly do what you ask.'

“You see,' he said quietly, 'she is my wife.'

“I sat up and stared at him.

“'Your wife!' I echoed. 'Then why the deuce don't you go to Cairo yourself, my dear fellow?'

“'I can't,' he answered. 'I daren't. But when she knows it's safe—impress that on her, don't forget—she'll come here. I suppose,' he went on diffidently, 'you couldn't help her to make arrangements for the journey, could you?'

“I ASSURED him that I would do everything I could to assist the lady, and the poor chap was pathetically grateful. I stayed on with him as long as I could, consistently with my rôle of Arab, and I let him talk. He could think of nothing except his wife, and in view of the fact that he hadn't seen her for four years it was hardly surprising. Once or twice I tried to mention his health, but he waved the matter aside. A bit of a cough, that was all, and everything was going to be perfect when his wife arrived. And his parting injunction to me was a repetition of the fact that there was no danger.

“'She ought to be here in a month,' were his last words, and I left him to his dreams—the man who called himself Brown.”

Jim paused and knocked the ashes out of his pipe.

“I was back in Cairo in about a fortnight, and the first thing I did, of course, was to give in my report. It was to Toby Bretherton I made it, and when I'd finished I got down to the other matter.

“'Mrs. Dallas!' he cried. 'Do I know her? My dear fellow, there's not a man in Cairo who doesn't. She takes very good care of that. Why do you ask?'

“But I wasn't there to gratify Toby's curiosity, and I put him off with some noncommittal reply.

“'She's a widow,' he went on. 'A distinctly good-looking filly—a high-stepper and a rapid mover. But excessively discreet, Jim—very excessively discreet.'

“'You don't appear mad about the lady,' I remarked.

“He shrugged his shoulders. 'I am not one of the privileged many. But from what I can see and from what I've been told, she has altogether too shrewd an eye for the main chance to be particularly attractive. Her present quarry, I believe, is that ass Hounslow. Some minor official out from England,' he went on, in answer to my look of inquiry. 'Conducting some statistical investigation. And I am told that the air of Cairo and the lady's charms have seriously interfered with the great man's work.'

“I left him soon after, and as you can imagine I was thinking pretty hard. For Toby Bretherton's description of the lady hardly fitted in with the one given me by the man called Brown. In fact, I didn't quite see her rushing up the White Nile to the back of beyond. And when I finally met the lady the following afternoon still less could I imagine her doing it. I was still disguised as an Arab, and I took stock of her without much difficulty. She was surrounded by a bunch of men, and they were watching some flying out at Heliopolis. And Mr. Hounslow, as he then was, was watching her.

“THERE was a fancy-dress ball that night at the Semiramis, and to that ball I repaired. I was determined to speak with her, and I did—though it took some time. As Toby had said, she was excessively discreet, and subalterns begged her to go with them to dark corners of the grounds in vain. But at last Mr. Hounslow—not being a subaltern, but a very much bigger fish—persuaded her to brave the rigors of the night air with him. She yielded with becoming reluctance, and allowed herself to be led to a discreet summerhouse in the grounds.

“And there, I regret to say, the statistical expert's feelings so overcame him that he kissed her. And Mrs. Dallas murmured, 'George—dear.' He kissed her again, and shortly afterward Mrs. Dallas agreed to become Mrs. Hounslow. And then, because Mr. Hounslow was a Public Man and had duty dances with the wives of other Public Men, he left her. She wouldn't come in for a while, she said: she would sit and dream. Even as the man called Brown was sitting and dreaming, many moons away up the White Nile.

“It was the chance I had been waiting for, and I stepped into the summerhouse. She gave a little cry, as I bowed deeply before her.

“'Who are you? What do you want?' she asked.

“'My name is Ibrahim, lady,' I said, 'and I bring you a message. It is from an Englishman, and it is as follows: 'Jack is waiting. It is quite safe.'

“I thought she was going to faint. In the semi-darkness I could see that every vestige of color had left her face, and her breath was coming in great gasps.

“'But it isn't true,' she muttered after a time. 'It can't be true, I tell you. Jack is dead; I know he's dead.'

“'He is waiting for you,' I went on impassively. 'And he told me to impress on you that there was no danger.'

“'Where is he?' she cried. 'Tell me where he is.' She was clutching my arm feverishly.

“'Many days' march up the White Nile,' I answered gravely. 'You will go to him?'

“'But don't you see it's impossible!' she almost screamed.

“And then what little pity I had for her went. As long as she had believed that her husband was dead—and, to do the woman justice, I have no doubt that she really had believed it—I had nothing to say on the matter. The mere fact that I fully shared Toby Bretherton's opinion of her was beside the point: we don't all think alike. But now the thing was on a different footing altogether.

“'Why is it impossible for a woman to go to her husband?' I demanded.

Illustration: “Throughout the whole journey up the White Nile Mrs. Dallas had hardly spoken to me. To her I was just an Arab guard”

“She literally sprang at me. 'You're not to say that!' she exclaimed. 'You're not to mention that word, do you understand?'

“'It is the truth,' I answered, and she began pacing up and down like a caged tigress.

“'How am I to get to him?' she asked, snatching at the straw.

“But I wasn't going to let her off that way.

“'I will take you to him,' I told her.

“THERE came the sound of approaching footsteps, and she seized my arm.

“'Where can I see you again?' she whispered. 'I must have time to think.'

“I arranged a meeting place out beyond Mana House for the following day, and then I disappeared to make room for dear George.”

Jim smiled a little grimly.

“I don't profess to know what she said to him, or how she accounted for her sudden determination to go up the White Nile. As I said before, she was a rotten woman and she was an unscrupulous woman—but she certainly was not a fool. And whatever may have been the secret which had caused the man called Brown to bury himself—at the time, of course, I didn't know it—his charming wife was not unacquainted with the law on bigamy. She had to go, and she knew it; and she had to go without arousing dear George's suspicions. She certainly succeeded. The poor boob was eating out of her hand when I met them near the Sphinx on the following day.

“It appeared that Toby Bretherton had been consulted as to my reliability, and I smiled inwardly as I wondered what he had thought about the matter. But, true to the instincts of all those who play the Game, he had not given me away. And to Mr. George Hounslow and his fiancée I was still Ibrahim—a thoroughly reliable Arab.

“The next day we started by train for Khartum. There I got the necessary boys and a fortnight later we came to the place where the man called Brown was awaiting his wife. Throughout the whole journey she had hardly spoken to me save to ask how much farther it was. To her I was just an Arab guide, and when we arrived that was all I was to the man. I don't think he even recognized me; he had eyes for no one but his wife. She—this wonderful woman—had not failed him! His dreams had come true. And with his arms outstretched he went to her, heedless of every one else.

“'Oh, my dear, I can hardly believe that it's true!' I heard him say.”

Jim paused for a moment, then he went on very gravely:

“HAVE you ever seen a dog jump up suddenly to welcome his master, and get a biff over the head for his pains? Ever seen a child run up to kiss some one and get rebuffed? Of course you have. And you've seen the light—the love-light die out of their eyes. Just so did the light die out of the eyes of the man who called himself Brown. You'd have thought that she might have acted a bit—Heaven knows, she was a good enough actress when it suited her book. You'd have thought that she might have had the common decency to pretend she was glad to see the poor devil, even if her plans had been knocked on the head. But I suppose it wasn't worth her while to act in front of a bunch of Arabs.

“'What on earth have you done this for?' she snapped at him. 'They told me you were dead a year ago.'

“There was no mistaking her tone of voice, and the man called Brown looked as if some one had hit him.

“'But, my dear,' he stammered, and then suddenly he began to cough. A dreadful, tearing cough that shook him from head to foot; a cough that stained his handkerchief with scarlet. And into the eyes of the woman there came a look of shrinking fear, which was replaced almost at once by something very different. Her husband, doubled up in the paroxysm, saw nothing—and a bunch of natives didn't count. Hope, triumph, the way out, replaced fear in her eyes. She knew the poor brute who had been waiting for her for four years was dying. Her path was clear—or would be very soon.

“'JACK—you're ill!' she said solicitously, as the attack spent itself, and he looked pathetically grateful for the change of tone. He snatched at it—the one crumb of comfort he'd had, and, putting his hand through her arm, he led her toward his bungalow. He didn't see the hand away from him clench convulsively; he didn't sense the strained tension of her whole body as she tried not to let him draw her too close; he didn't notice the horror that had come into her eyes again.”

Jim laughed savagely.

“'Was it possible to do too much for the sick and suffering?'” he mimicked. “Great heavens! Dick, I tell you that woman was wild with terror at the thought of getting infected herself. She knew it was consumption—no one could help knowing it. And, as I say, the soul of the philanthropic lady who opened our hospital this afternoon was sick with fear.

“Then they disappeared—she and the man called Brown. What happened at that interview I cannot tell you, but it lasted about an hour. And then she came out of the bungalow alone, and walked toward me.

“'Ibrahim,' she said, 'we will start back tomorrow.'

“Then she went to her tent, which the boys had just erected. I waited till she had disappeared, then I walked across to the bungalow. The man sitting there seemed suddenly to have grown old, and he stared at me for a while uncomprehendingly. Then he recognized me, and his shoulders shook a little.

“'Thank you for all you've done,' he said tonelessly. 'I'm sorry to have troubled you uselessly.'

“'Why uselessly?' I asked.

“It would have been better if I had let her think I was dead,' he went on. 'I shall be pretty soon. I realize now that I was asking too much of any woman. It's exposing her to too great a risk; it was selfish of me—selfish. But you see it was for her sake that I defrauded the firm I was employed with in London of several thousand pounds, and I thought, somehow, that——' He broke off, and buried his face in his hands. 'Jove, Maitland—what that woman has meant to me these four years! I got away—out of the country; I buried myself here. And I used to picture the time when she would join me. When I saw her arrive today, I thought I'd go mad with joy.' He raised his head and stared at me somberly. 'Of course I ought to have known better——'

“'And what does Mrs. Dallas propose?' I inquired.

“He looked at me with a strange smile. 'She proposes to join me,' he remarked quietly, 'as soon as I am well again—in some other country, under some other name. So, if you would be good enough to escort her back to Cairo tomorrow, we will await that happy day.'

“I looked at him quickly, but his face was inscrutable.

“'There comes a time, my friend,' he went on, 'when one ceases to see 1 Corinthians 13#"Through a glass darkly"|through a glass darkly.'

“And that time had come to the man called Brown. At the moment I didn't realize the full meaning to him of the quotation—later I did. For I hadn't gone ten steps from his bungalow when I heard the crack of a revolver in the room behind me. It's not much good waiting to die of consumption in the back of beyond, when the woman you've built your life on turns out to be rotten to the core.

“I took her to see him,” went on Jim after a while. “I dragged her there—whimpering; and I held her there while she looked on the man who had blown his brains out. She stood it for about five seconds. Then she fainted.”

Jim Maitland gave a short laugh.

“That is very near the end of the story—but not quite. I have sometimes wondered whether I would have told Hounslow if I hadn't gone down with fever at Khartum. If I'd gone straight back to Cairo with her—well, I might have, and I might not. The situation, in parliamentary parlance, did not arise. It only arose considerably later when Ibrahim the Arab emerged from the hospital in European clothes, with eyeglass complete. Astonishing how quickly the color fades away when you're indoors; astonishing how an eyeglass alters a man! So Ibrahim went in with fever, and yours very truly came out—a little sunburned, perhaps, but otherwise much as usual—and hurried to Cairo.

“I went to see Toby Bretherton as soon as I arrived, and the first thing he said to me was, 'Pity you had your trip in vain, old man.'

“I grunted noncommittally.

“'Dashed plucky thing on her part, going off to see her brother like that.'

“'Dashed plucky!' I agreed.

“'And then to find he'd blown his brains out! Bad show. Glad you were there, Jim. By the same token—you kept your identity pretty dark. She has no idea who you are. Why not dine with me tonight, and I'll ask her and Hounslow. She's going tomorrow. It will be rather interesting to see if she recognizes you.'

“'It undoubtedly will,' I remarked. 'Eight o'clock?'

“SHE didn't recognize me. As I say, a boiled shirt and an eyeglass alter a man. But she was very charming and very sweet, and quite delightfully modest when Hounslow told me of her trip at great length.

“'It was nothing,' she said. Ibrahim—the wonderful Ibrahim had made everything easy. And she would rather not talk about it—it was all too horrible.

“'I do hope he's better, Major Bretherton,' she said gently. 'He looked so ill when he went into the hospital at Khartum. If only I wasn't going tomorrow, I would so like to have thanked him again.'

“Toby Bretherton smiled. 'You can thank him tonight, Mrs. Dallas,' he remarked.

“She gave a little gasp and stared at him.

“'You surely don't suppose, do you,' he went on 'that I would ever have allowed you—ignorant of the country as you are—to go on a long trip like that alone with an Arab?'

“His smile expanded; it really was a jolly good joke. It was such a good joke, in fact, that her tortoise-shell cigarette holder snapped in two in her hand.

“'There is your Ibrahim.' He waved his hand at me.

“As a situation it had its dramatic possibilities, you'll admit, and I've sometimes wondered how one would have ended it if one had been writing a story. The actual truth was almost banal. George had turned to speak to a man passing the table; Toby was giving an order to the waiter. She leaned toward me and spoke.

“'What are you going to do?' she whispered.

“And my answer was—'George is waiting. It is quite safe. And may God help George!'

“I haven't seen her from that day till this afternoon.”

The Sacred Crocodile

IN a mysterious house on the banks of the Nile there gathered a group of pagan priests. They professed a secret cult, inherited unchanged since days of human sacrifice at the dawn of Egyptian history.

Lured by hypnotic powers into their midst came an English girl and her lover. The things they saw there and the weird adventures that followed are described in the most gripping tale H. C. McNeile has written in his Jim Maitland series. Pick a suitably grim and blustery winter evening to read the story—and you'll experience an unforgettable thrill. See the December McClure's.