“You hear?”
But Denzil in his turn was interrogating the waiter.
“Is Mr. Gervase in his room?”
“No, sir. He went out about ten o’clock yesterday evening, and I don’t think he is coming back. One of the Princess Ziska’s servants—the tall Nubian whom you may have noticed, sir—brought a message from him to say that his luggage was to be sent to Paris, and that the money for his bill would be found on his dressing-table. It was all right, of course, but we thought it rather curious.”
And glancing deferentially from one to the other of his questioners with a smile, the waiter went on his way.
“They have fled together!” said Denzil then, in choked accents of fury. “By Heaven, if I had guessed the plan already formed in his treacherous mind, I would never have shaken hands with Gervase last night!”
“Oh, you did shake hands?” queried Dr. Dean, meditatively. “Well, there was no harm in that. You were right. You and Gervase will meet no more in this life, believe me! He and the Princess Ziska have undoubtedly, as you say, fled together—but not to Thebes!”
He paused a moment, then laid his hand kindly on Denzil’s shoulder.
“Let us go back to Cairo, my boy, and from thence as soon as possible to England. We shall all be better away from this terrible land, where the dead have far more power than the living!”
Denzil stared at him uncomprehendingly.