He wondered what he should do now. Returning to Cairo was out of the question. He would go back to Fedah, his old home. Nephthys and her mother were there, and would hide him if Kāra appeared unexpectedly. Yes, Fedah was his only haven—at least until he had time to consider his future plans.
By and by he reached the station at Roda—the village named after the ancient island in the Nile opposite Cairo. A sleepy Arab porter was in charge of the place and eyed the dragoman’s wet clothing with evident suspicion. When questioned, he announced that a train would go south at six o’clock in the morning.
Tadros slipped outside the station and found a convenient hiding-place against a neighboring house, where the shadows were so deep that he could not be observed. Here he laid down to rest and await the arrival of the train.
By daybreak his clothing had dried, but he observed with regret that his blue satin vest had been ruined by the river water and that his Syrian sash was disgracefully wrinkled. Next to life itself, he loved his splendid costumes, so that this dreary discovery did not tend to raise his dampened spirits.
When the train drew in he boarded it and found himself seated in a compartment opposite to Lord Consinor. They stared at each other for a moment, and then the viscount emitted a sound that seemed a queer combination of a growl and a laugh.
“It is Kāra’s alter ego,” he sneered, in English.
“Pardon me, my lord,” said the dragoman, hastily, “the alliance is dissolved. I have even more reason than you to hate the prince.”
“Indeed?” returned Consinor.
“He is a fiend emanating directly from your English hell,” declared Tadros, earnestly. “I know of no other diabolical place where Kāra could have been bred. One thing is certain, however,” he continued, with bitter emphasis, “I will have vengeance upon him before I die!”
There was no mistaking the venom of the man’s rancorous assertion. Consinor smiled, and said: