“Lock it, please,” said Mary. “I—I’m feeling a little strange.”
“You’ll be all right when the windows are locked and the shades down.” And she was.
“Dad,” she said, after a few moments of quiet thought. “Perhaps that other bag belonged to the woman in black.”
“The woman in black?”
“Yes. Don’t you remember? The one who seemed to be working with the Jap spy who posed as an Arab.”
“She was in West Africa.”
“Yes, of course, and then I’ll never be sure that the French woman at the port and the Arab woman at the secret oasis were the same person.”
“You’ll probably never know that,” was his reply. “However, it would be my guess that they were two different people and, if there is really a woman mixed up in this affair of the papyrus, that she is still another. In this country and in Africa where spies are common, it is not difficult to maintain a regular fraternity of lady spies. To pass on a message from spy to spy is easy but for one spy to travel by plane from place to place in territory controlled by our friends is practically impossible. At any rate your bag is back and so is the papyrus and that, for the moment, is all that matters. And I’m surely going to see you safely off in the morning.”
In spite of the mysterious events of the day, and her strange surroundings, Mary slept well that night. Why not? Was not her father close at hand? Had he not been with her during the greater part of her life? And had she not always felt secure when he was near?
She awoke an hour before dawn to wish with all her soul that he was going with them all the way to the very end. But this, she knew, was impossible. He had stretched a point coming this far. His work was in Egypt, keeping the airways clear. He must turn back.