"Nay; she is in Alexandria," he blurted out.
The commissionaire slowly winked an eye.
"Perhaps," he said; "perhaps not," and chuckled as the negro turned hastily and strode away in the direction of the bank.
And thus came it to be known in the bazaar that Zulannah the courtesan had returned to the great city.
And a little later, Ben Kelham felt no tweak at the string with which Fate had hobbled him to his destiny, when, on hearing his number called, he took the letter from the page-boy, turned it over, and looked at it on each side, as we do when curious, but not over-interested; then he opened it idly, read it and crushed it in both hands.
It was written in the execrable English Zulannah had picked up in her few years of cosmopolitan intercourse with different nationalities; it was in vile hand-writing and was as despicable a method of revenge as an anonymous letter usually is.
It ran after this fashion:
"If you want to find your white woman go and look for her in the ruins of Karnak, at night, in the arms of her half-caste lover, Hugh Carden Ali."
And the woman who had limped back to the street, sniggered behind her veil as she watched the man tear the letter into shreds, while he sat and thought out an answer to this second problem.
"It's a damnable lie. My Damaris and good old Carden! I expect they've met, but who———" He sniffed at his hands suddenly. "Pah! Now, where have I smelt that scent before?—filth!" He sat with his hands to his nose, then frowned as, under the suggestion of the perfume, the picture of a lovely woman clad in silks and satins and wearing rich jewels rose before him.