EXIT ANTOUN

If there had been no Brigit and no Monny in the world we should have let that train go on without us, and—hang the Set and its feelings! But there was a Brigit; there was a Monny; and they were more to us than all the treasure Sir Marcus was apparently stealing while we slaved.

What fools we had been to trust in such a man! And I had actually wasted pity on the fellow. Now, as we were borne away from MerÖe, we saw our hopes, which had begun to seem certainties, dissolving into air. They were like the mirage of the desert which lured us with siren enchantment and mystery in this Never-Never-land which thousands of brave men had died to win: shimmering blue lakes, that mirrored green trees and low purple mountains, and the gold of sand-dunes, so real, so near, it seemed we might walk to them in a few moments: only mocking dreams, like our belief in a famous financier's loyalty; like our hopes of fortune. For if Sir Marcus Lark had secretly begun work at the Mountain of the Golden Pyramid, it meant that he intended to steal everything best worth having, for himself.

It was maddening to realize that we might be too late to thwart him, but we had to risk this, or risk losing something dearer than the jewels of a Queen Candace. Anthony was staking the happiness of his future on the events of the following night. Now that the small cloud of misunderstanding had passed from the clear sky of our friendship, we were one again in confidence, as we had been before the Philae eavesdropping: and I knew the plan he meant to carry out at the Sirdar's ball. It was rather a melodramatic plan, perhaps, but somehow it fitted into the circumstances of his queer courtship, and I could see why Anthony preferred it to any other more conventional. As for me, I too counted on Khartum to give me a present of happiness. Bedr's story, largely false as it might be, must have a basis of truth. I'd ceased to argue with Biddy. "We'll leave the subject of the future alone till we get to Khartum," I had said. She thought, maybe, that she had half convinced me of her worldly wisdom. But this was far from being the case. I was only waiting to see whether my theory were right or wrong. I couldn't know until Khartum: and nothing on earth, or hidden under earth, would have induced me to put off the moment of finding out.

North Khartum was standing in a mirage as we approached. And Fenton and I were superstitious enough to wonder if it were a bad omen, that lovely lake which was not there, reflecting clearly each white and ochre-coloured house of the city in the sand. Only the blue glitter of the Nile was real, as the train crossed the river on a high bridge, and landed us in the surprising garden of beauty which is Khartum itself. Wide streets, bordered with flowering trees, rose-pink acacias and coral pendants of pepper-berries; lawns green as velvet; big, verandaed houses of silver-gray or ruddy stone; roses climbing over hedge and wall; scent of lilies and magnolias floating in an air clear as crystal; droning sakkeyehs spraying pearls over the warm bodies of slow-moving oxen; white sails like butterflies' wings dotting the Blue Nile: this was the new city created as if by magic, in sixteen years, upon the sad ruins of Gordon's stronghold.

On the wide veranda of the Grand Hotel, where pretty girls were giving tea to young officers in khaki, Fenton came up to Brigit and Monny, who were questioning me about letters. The look on his face struck the girl into silence.

"What is it?" she asked, almost sharply.

"Don't let me interrupt you," he said. "I can wait a few minutes."

"No," Monny insisted. "Please speak. I know it's something important."

"Important only to myself, perhaps," he answered, with a smile that was rather wistful. "I have to say good-bye now."

"Good-bye?" echoed Monny, surprised and even frightened, more by his look and tone than the words themselves.

"My engagement with Sir Marcus Lark ended when our train stopped at Khartum. I have other business to attend to here. I've just made my adieux with everybody else. I saved you till the last."

Monny was pale. Even the fresh young rose that was her mouth had blanched. Otherwise she controlled herself perfectly. Was this part of Anthony's plan? I wondered. He had told me what he intended to do at the Palace ball to-morrow night; but he had said nothing about this preliminary scene. I understood, however, why he had not manoeuvred to get Monny to himself, in a deserted corner of this big ground-floor balcony of the hotel. Even when with the Set it was a question of getting their tea, or looking at their rooms, eyes were always ready to observe Miss Gilder, especially since it was "in the air" that she really was Miss Gilder—"the Miss Gilder." He did not want Miss Hassett-Bean and Mrs. Harlow to be saying: "Look, my dear, at the tragic, private farewell Antoun Effendi and our American Beauty are having!" Since Philae, there would have been no use in trying to conceal his feelings for Monny from Brigit or me. Therefore we made useful chaperons, and could be regarded as dummies.

"You never told me you were leaving us at Khartum," the girl stammered. "I thought—" But, though we knew what she thought, she could go no further before an audience.

"My business prevents me from staying at the hotel," Anthony explained. "And—though I shall see you, never again will you see poor Ahmed Antoun."

"I don't understand," Monny said.

"I know. But that was what we agreed upon. You promised to trust me without understanding. To-morrow night, at the Sirdar's ball, you will understand. I've arranged with Lord Ernest that you and Mrs. Jones and Mrs. East and he shall write your names in the book at the Palace. Then you will all receive invitations for the ball; you four only, of the party."

"And you will be there?"

"I've just told you," Anthony repeated, "that Antoun is saying good-bye to you forever."

"Yet you told me, too, that after Khartum I should be hap—" She cut herself short, and shut her lips closely. I was angry with Fenton for what seemed cruelty to one who had very nobly confessed her love for him. Biddy's eyes protested, too; but the man and the girl cared no more for us or our criticism, at that moment, than if we had been harmless, necessary chairs for them to sit upon.

"There are many paths to happiness," Fenton answered. "I shall see you to-morrow night, and I shall know whether you are happy. Meanwhile I say again—trust me. And good-bye."

He held out his strong, nervous hand, so browned by the sun that it needed little staining for the part he had played—and was to play no more. As if mechanically, Monny Gilder laid her hand in it. They looked into each other's eyes, which were almost on a level, so tall was she. Then Antoun Effendi turned abruptly away, forgetting apparently that he had not taken leave of Brigit or me.

"Let's go upstairs at once, dear, and see our rooms," Biddy said quickly.

An instant later, I stood alone on the veranda. But I knew well enough where to find Captain Anthony Fenton when I wanted him, although the death knell of Antoun was sounding. I was not in the least melancholy, and despite the tense emotion of that short scene, I had never felt less sentimental in my life. My whole being concentrated itself in a desire to visit the post-office, and to bash Sir Marcus Lark's head.

When Anthony came up for his farewell I had been asking Brigit and Monny if they expected letters at the Poste Restante. Both said no, but advised by me, they gave me their cards, armed with which I could ask for letters and obtain them if there were any. "It's very unlikely any one will address me there," Biddy had assured me. "The only letter I'm hoping for will come to the hotel."

I was not jealous: because I was sure the said letter was from EsmÉ O'Brien, now for weal or woe Mrs. Halloran. The letter I hoped for would be from a very different person, though if it materialized it would certainly mention the runaway bride. And if such a letter came to Khartum, the place to look for it, I thought, would be the Poste Restante. The writer not being a personal friend of Mrs. O'Brien, and presumably not knowing Khartum, could not be certain at which hotel she would stop.

I was hurrying away, a few minutes later, to prove once and for all whether I were a budding Sherlock Holmes or merely an imaginative fool, when a servant came out from the hotel and handed me a telegram.

"Lark!" I read the signature at the end with a snort of rage. "I wonder he has the cheek to—" But by that time I was getting at the meat of the message. "What the dev—by Jove! Here's a complication!" I heard myself mutter a running accompaniment to Marcus Lark's words—

This is what he had to say on two sheets of paper:

LORD ERNEST BORROW, Grand Hotel, Khartum:

In train leaving Assuan met man from MerÖe told me work begun at our place strange news don't understand but sure you two haven't gone ahead of bargain must be foul play or else mistake but thought matter too serious go on north left train returned Assuan caught government steamer for Halfa just arrived too late for train de luxe but will proceed by ordinary train to camp better meet me there soon as possible leaving boat people take care of themselves. Wire KabushÎa Lark.

His loyalty to us shamed me. We had not given him the benefit of the doubt, but had at once believed the worst. He, though "not a gentleman" in the opinion of Colonel Corkran and some others, was chivalrously sure that we had "not gone ahead of the bargain!" A revulsion of feeling gave me a spasm of something like affection for the big fellow whom his adored Cleopatra sneered at as "common."

I longed to show the telegram to Anthony; but he would now be at the Palace, reporting to the Sirdar. Later he would be at his own quarters, transforming himself from a pale brown Hadji in a green turban into a sunburned young British officer in uniform. Meantime I would go to the Poste Restante, and then (whatever the result of the visit) I would return, collect Brigit and Monny, and take them to the Palace to write their names in the book.

I dare not think what my blood pressure must have been as I waited for a post-office official to look through a bundle of letters.

"Mrs. B. Jones," he murmured. "No, nothing for B. Jones—unless it's O'Brien Jones. Here's a letter addressed to Mrs. O'Brien Jones."

"That's it," said I, swallowing heavily, "Mrs. O'Brien Jones. I think the letter must be postmarked Assuan."

Without further hesitation the post-office man handed me the envelope, on the strength of Mrs. B. Jones' visiting card.

Going out of the office, I walked on air. "Sherlock Holmes it is!" I congratulated myself. And I ventured to be wildly happy, because it seemed to me that a letter sent to Mrs. O'Brien Jones, from Assuan, could mean only one thing; a justification of my theory.

I went straight to Biddy's door and knocked. There was no answer, and I stood fuming with impatience on the upstairs balcony, upon which each bedroom opens. It seemed impossible to live another minute without putting that letter into Biddy's hand. And not for the world would I have let it come to her from any one else. I was tempted to tear open the envelope, but before I had time to test my character, Biddy appeared on the balcony, coming round the corner from Monny's room.

"Why, Duffer! You look as if the sky had fallen!" she exclaimed.

"It has," I returned. "It's lying all over the place. There's a bit of it in this letter. A bit of heaven, maybe."

"A letter for me?"

"Yes. And if you aren't quick about opening it I'll commit hari kari."

She was quick about opening it.

As she read, almost literally my eyes were glued to her face. It went white, then pink. "Thank heaven!" I said within myself. If she had been pink first and white afterward, I should have been alarmed. For a woman's colour to blossom warmly from a snowfield, means good news.

"Duffer!" she breathed. "Do you—know—what's in this?"

"I—thought it would come." My voice sounded rather queer. I'd fancied I had more self-control. "That's why I—wanted your card—for the Poste Restante."

"Read this," she said, and gave me the open letter.

It was written on paper of a hotel at Assuan, near the railway station, and was as follows:

MADAM: Let me explain frankly before I go further, that my name is Thomas Macmahan. You may remember it. If you do, you will not think it strange that I—as a private person, as well as a member of a Society—whose name it is not necessary to mention—wanted certain papers you were supposed to possess. For a long time I, and others almost equally interested, tried to trace you, after learning that you had the documents, or in any case knew where they were. Naturally we were prepared to go far in order to make you give them up. We believed that your step-daughter was with you. As the need was pressing, and we had failed more than once, we would, if necessary, have worked upon your feelings through her. Had we questioned you, and you had replied that we were mistaken concerning the young lady and the papers, we should have been incredulous. But accident enabled us to hear from your own lips, details which we could not disbelieve. As a woman we wish you no harm, therefore we rejoice in this turn of events, for your sake. Your step-daughter must now be one of us, through her husband. She has nothing further to fear, much as we regret her marriage into a family so deeply injured by her father. As for you, Madam, you may be at rest where we are concerned. You said to Lord Ernest Borrow in the Temple of Abu Simbel, that you could never be happy, until the Organization Richard O'Brien betrayed, "forgot and forgave his daughter and yourself." Through me, the Organisation now formally both forgets and forgives.

Wishing you well in future, Yours truly,

T. MACMAHAN (alias Blount).

P. S. Kindly acknowledge receipt of this letter in care of Bedr el GemÁly whose address you have at Cairo. Not hearing from you, we shall try to communicate this news in some other way. The present method has occurred to us, as you may find it useful to know the state of affairs without delay.

"Oh, Biddy, do you find it useful?" I asked.

She held out her hands to me. There was no one on the veranda just then and I kissed her.

"Mine!" I said. "What a gorgeous place Khartum would be, to be married in!"

Monny was very brave next day. She went to Omdurman with the rest of us. And it was the chance of a lifetime, because (through Anthony) Slatin Pasha himself took us to the place of his captivity: Slatin Pasha, slim, soldierly, young, vital and brilliant. It was scarcely possible to believe that this man, who looked no more than thirty-five, and radiated energy, could have passed eleven years in slavery terrible beyond description. He spoke of those experiences almost lightly, as if telling the story of some one else, and it was "all in the day's work" that he should have triumphed over his persecutors in a way more complete, more dramatic than any author of romance would dare invent for his hero.

He took us, from the river-steps in front of his own big, verandaed house, down the Blue Nile in a fast steam launch. It was a Nile as blue as turquoise; and after the low island of Tuli had been left behind it was strange to see the junction of the Blue and the White Niles, in a quarrelsome swirl of sharply divided colours. Landing on the shore at Omdurman, we met carts loaded with elephant-tusks, and wagons piled with hides. Giant men, like ebony statues, walked beside pacing camels white as milk. The vegetable market was a town of little booths: the grain markets had gathered riches of green and orange-gold. Farther on, in the brown shadows of the roughly roofed labyrinth of bazaars, were stores of sandalwood, and spices smelling like Araby the blest; open-fronted shops showing splendid leopard skins, crocodile heads bristling with knives, carved tusks of elephants, shields, armour said to have been captured from crusaders; Abyssinian spears, swords and strange headgear used by the Mahdi's and Khalifa's men. The bazaars of Cairo and even Assuan seemed tame and sophisticated compared to this wild market of the Sudan, where half the men, and all the bread-selling women who were old enough, had been the Khalifa's slaves.

With Slatin Pasha we went to the Khalifa's "palace" to gaze at the "saint's" carriage, the skeleton of Gordon's piano, and scores of ancient guns which had cut short the lives of Christian men. Slatin's house we saw, too, and the gate whence he had escaped: the Mahdi's shattered tomb, and the famous open-air Mosque.

Then we had a run up the Blue Nile, as far as "Gordon's Tree," and lunched on board the launch. In the afternoon, back at Khartum again, there was still time to group round the statue of Gordon on his camel, holding the short stick that was his only weapon, and gazing over the desert. The Set were allowed to walk through the Palace gardens, to behold the spot at the head of the grand staircase, where Gordon fell, and to have a glimpse, in the Sirdar's library, of the Khalifa's photograph, taken after death. This was a special favour, and as they knew nothing about the four invitations to the ball, they were satisfied with their day.

Dinner was in the illuminated garden of the hotel: and when it was over, I smuggled Brigit and Monny and Cleopatra inconspicuously away. No one suspected; and if the lovely dresses worn by Mrs. East and Miss Gilder were commented upon, doubtless aunt and niece were merely supposed to be "showing off."

Never, I think, had Monny come so near to being a great beauty. In her dress of softly folding silver cloth she was a tall white lily. She wore no jewels except a string of pearls, and there was no colour about her anywhere, except the deep violet her hazel eyes took on at night, and the brown-gold of her hair. Even her lips were pale as they had been when Antoun bade her good-bye. Hers was no gay, dancing mood. She was going to the ball because Antoun Effendi had ordered, rather than asked, her to go. But she was like some fair, tragic creature on trial for her life, waiting to hear what the verdict of the jury might be.