“That thief, Mohammed,” he said tersely, “has no more idea than Adam, I believe, who your old porter friend really is.”
“Why do you think so?” asked Eileen.
“Because he’s up in Cairo to-night, searching for him!”
“How do you know?”
“I cornered him about it this afternoon, and although I couldn’t force an admission from him—I don’t think anybody short of an accomplished K.C. could—he was suspiciously evasive! I gave him four hours to procure the name and address of the old gentleman to whom we owe the price of a turquoise necklace. He has not turned up yet!”
Eileen made no reply. Her Celtic imagination had invested the morning’s incident with a mystic significance which she could not hope to impart to her hard-headed husband.
A dirty and ragged Egyptian boy made his way on to the verandah, furtively glancing about him, as if anticipating the cuff of an unseen hand. He sidled up to Graham, thrusting a scrap of paper on to the little table beside him.
“For me?” said Graham.
The boy nodded; and whilst Eileen watched him interestedly, Graham, tilting the communication so as to catch the light from the hotel windows, read the following:
“He is come to here but cannot any farther. I have him waiting the boy will bring you.