With an accustomedness which spoke of previous practice, he presided over his master's toilet. He fetched water, honed a razor, shaved Aylmer with deftness and despatch, produced trousers from a press, handed coat and waistcoat brushed and folded to the last pinnacle of neatness. It was as he laced the boots that he looked up inquiringly and put a question which had been obviously hanging upon his lips since the moment of his master's rising.
"And what, oh, Sidi, are your intentions now?"
"First, to see my host. Afterwards," he made a vague gesture, "afterwards, my friend, I shall act as is directed by your perpetual gossip—Fate!"
"May Allah direct our councils!" aspired Daoud, piously. "Lean upon me, Sidi! There is no need to overtax thy returning strength!"
But Aylmer leaned upon nothing. Slowly, but walking erect, he paced across the wide entrance hall, and then halted, indeterminate.
The hangings across a door opposite him were drawn aside. Claire Van Arlen stood confronting him, her lips parted in amazement.
"You!" she protested breathlessly. "You!"
He answered with a little bow.
"Myself," he said quietly. "I must present my excuses for an ... intrusion which it was not within my power to prevent."
She held up her hand in protest.