"An Arab! Not—not—is he a stranger?"
"Yes, Missis. Very low man. Never comed before."
"Bring him here—quick!"
Five minutes passed. We tried to talk, but could think of nothing to say. Then the servant returned, ushering in a dwarfish Arab in a dirty white turban, and the shabby black galabeah worn only by the poor who cannot afford good materials and the bright colours loved by Egyptians.
"From Antoun Effendi?" asked Biddy, in excitement, as he held out a piece of folded paper, not in an envelope.
The man shook his head. "He spik no English," explained the servant who waited.
"You talk to him," Biddy appealed to me, while Cleopatra told the hotel footman that he might go. But I had no time to question the messenger. Biddy cried out as she unfolded the paper. "Why, Duffer, inside it's addressed to you! It says:
"'For Lord Ernest Borrow. To be opened by Mrs. Jones in his absence.'"
Within the outer wrapping was a second folded paper, of the same kind. They looked like sheets torn from a notebook. And I saw that the address, scrawled in pencil, was in Anthony's handwriting.