All too soon she was to learn that his actions had more meaning than they appeared to have.

“It is all arranged.” Her father was again at her side. “We are to be at the garden gate in just two hours. You’ll find it fascinating, the experience of a lifetime.”

“In these days,” she replied slowly, “each experience is one of a lifetime.

“I just saw the man who has an overnight bag like mine,” she added.

“Did you? What of that?”

“I don’t really know. He ducked, that’s all, rode a donkey right through the crowd.”

“That’s strange.”

“It sure was.”

When, some twenty minutes later, in search of a clean handkerchief, Mary opened her bag, she let out a gasp:

“Why! This is not my bag!”

Her father stared. “It must be!”

“It’s not. These garments are not mine. Nothing is mine. And,” she ran her hand through the carefully packed bag, “the roll of papyrus is not here!”

“That man must somehow have gotten his bag mixed with yours.”

“But this is a lady’s bag.”

“It must belong to his wife.”

“But he’s fat, a Dutchman, or German I think. Who ever heard of a slender German housefrau? And these clothes are my size.” She held up a shimmering dream robe. “It’s the strangest thing I ever heard of,” she said when, after five minutes of examining the contents of the bag, she held up a beautiful party dress. “You’d think that my bag had been burned up, contents and all, and that someone, who knew the contents very well, had gone to the trouble of replacing it piece by piece. Every article here is brand new. Only the papyrus roll is missing.”

“It is strange,” her father agreed, “but the ways of enemy spies are past finding out, or, perhaps, he was only an Oriental robber.”

“A thief of Bagdad?”

“Something like that. The roll of papyrus may be quite valuable, worth many thousands. That depends upon the Egyptian dynasty from which it came. Museums pay almost any price for certain rare writings from those ancient times.”

“Why did I accept it?” Mary moaned.

“Why did I encourage you to accept it,” he amended. “Perhaps time will bring the answer. Then again there may be no real answer. Come, let’s get ready for the Persian garden party. We have quite a way to go, and donkeys are slow.

“You didn’t happen to have any secret papers in your traveling bag, did you?” he asked as they rode toward his friend’s garden home.

“None whatever, not even a letter. Sparky keeps all our papers in a secret compartment of the plane. That’s where the papyrus should have been, but who would suppose—”

“That anyone in Persia would be interested in that roll?”

“Yes, or know anything about it.”

“The enemy’s network of spies is vast and endless. Without doubt they have radio connections with every large city.”

“You keep hinting that the papyrus carries a secret message or something. You surely don’t think a message written so long ago means anything to this generation?”

“There are those who do. I can find you men who will tell you how this war is to end. They found it all written out in the Koran, or the Bible.”

“You’re not clearing things up much.”

“Let’s forget the whole business,” he suggested. “We accepted no responsibility, only agreed to try to get the roll to America. Well, at present, it appears that we have failed. The sun is lower now. My friend’s garden will be delightful. Let us sing while we may.”

The garden was all that he had promised, and more. Having arrived at a massive, iron-bound gate in a wall, they tethered their donkeys, then knocked. The gate swung open and they stepped inside.

“Look up,” said the Colonel.

“How gorgeous!” Mary exclaimed as her eyes feasted themselves on the scene that lay above them. Up a steep slope ran two stone walks. Between these walks a small stream of crystal-clear water gurgled and danced over bright colored tiles.

Between the walks and water were narrow flower beds all aglow with blossoms.

Here and there the stream spread out into a pool or rose into a spouting fountain. About the pools were more flowers, while on the surface water lilies—lily pads with yellow flowers—lay.

As they walked slowly up the narrow walk, the valley widened a little. Low trees began to appear on either side. Beyond this they saw a small house that was all doors and windows.

“It’s out of a story book,” Mary whispered.

“Yes, Arabian Nights,” her father agreed.

They entered the house. At its center a small fountain played. About its walls were low benches piled high with cushions.

“Oh!” Mary breathed, settling herself among the cushions. “Why must life go on and on when it could end itself in a blaze of glory right here?”

Her father laughed but made no reply.

For a long time they remained silent, gazing at the scene before them, bright flowers, gently swaying trees, dashing water, and beyond that, in sharp contrast, dull, brown, barren hills and grassless valleys.

“It’s like life,” Mary whispered. “Beautiful and gay, then somber and sad.”

However, it seemed that for the time their lives were to be filled with beauty, gayety and charm, for here was their jovial host and with him two black slaves bearing trays of fruit, cakes, and tea.

When the tea and cakes were gone, they sat for a time in silence, just resting and admiring the scene that lay beneath their feet.

“This is one time when I wish I could paint pictures,” Mary murmured at last.

“The charm of our little world here is its contrast,” said the host, pleased by her words. “Without the brown hills beyond, our gardens would not seem half as beautiful.”

Once again there was silence for a time. And then came the slaves bringing rice cooked with meat, a roast of mutton, bread, cheese, fruit and light, red wine.

“Ah! a feast!” the Colonel exclaimed.

“We have very little here in the hills,” his host apologized in true Eastern fashion.

“It is wonderful,” said Mary, “and more wonderful still to have time for enjoying it. Tomorrow, we shall be rushing through the air once more.”

“When there is a feast one forgets tomorrow,” said their host.