'A-ah!' ejaculated the eunuch in his high drawl. 'But it does not matter--with the two of us.' The Pasha grew more and more puzzled, for this was not the scene he had imagined to himself as he came up through the park in response to his wife's message. Nor did he grow less puzzled when the eunuch turned to her and said in another tone,-- 'Now will you give me that key?' The Frenchwoman took no more notice of this question than she had of the Pasha's entrance. 'What do you mean, Zuembuel Agha?' demanded the Pasha sharply. 'That is not the way to speak to your mistress.' 'I mean this, my Pasha,' retorted the eunuch: 'that some one is hiding in this chest and that madama keeps the key.' That was what the Pasha heard, in the absurd treble of the black man, in the darkening room. He looked down and made out, beside the tall figure of the eunuch, the chest on which he had been sitting. Then he looked across at Helene, who still sat silent in front of the lattice. 'What are you talking about?' he asked at last, more stupefied than anything else. 'Who is it? A thief? Has any one--?' He left the vague question unformulated, even in his mind. 'Ah, that I don't know. You must ask madama. Probably it is one of her Christian friends. But at least if it were a woman she would not be so unwilling to unlock her chest for us!' The silence that followed, while the Pasha looked dumbly at the chest, and at Zuembuel Agha, and at his wife, was filled for him with a stranger confusion of feelings than he had ever experienced before. Nevertheless, he was surprisingly cool, he found. His pulse quickened very little. He told himself that it wasn't true and that he really must get rid of old Zuembuel after all, if he went on making such preposterous gaffes and setting them all by the ears. How could anything so baroque happen to him, the Pasha, who owed what he was to the honorable fathers and who had passed his life honorably and peaceably until this moment? Yet he had had an impression, walking into the dark old kiosque and finding nobody until he found these two sitting here in this extraordinary way, as if he had walked out of his familiar garden, which he knew like his hand, into a country he knew nothing about, where anything might be true. And he wished, he almost passionately wished, that Helene would say something, would cry out against Zuembuel Agha, would lie even, rather than sit there so still and removed and different from other women. Then he began to be aware that if it were true--if!--he ought to do something. He ought to make a noise. He ought to kill somebody. That was what they always did. That was what his father would have done--or certainly his grandfather. But he also told himself that it was no longer possible for him to do what his father and grandfather had done. He had been unlearning their ways too long. Besides, he was too old.