“Yes,” Monte Irvin was saying, “only a year ago; but, thank God, it seems more like ten! Merciful time effaces sadness but spares joy.” He turned to his wife, whose flower-like face peeped out from a nest of white fur. Covertly he squeezed her hand, and was rewarded with a swift, half coquettish glance, in which he read trust and contentment. The dreadful ordeal through which she had passed had accomplished that which no physician in Europe could have hoped for, since no physician would have dared to adopt such drastic measures. Actuated by deliberate cruelty, and with the design of bringing about her death from apparently natural causes, the Kazmah group had deprived her of cocaine for so long a period that sanity, life itself, had barely survived; but for so long a period that, surviving, she had outlived the drug craving. Kazmah had cured her! Monte Irvin turned to the tall fair girl who sat upon the arm of a cane rest-chair beside Rita. “But nothing can ever efface the memory of all you have done for Rita, and for me,” he said, “nothing, Mrs. Seton.” “Oh,” said Margaret, “my mind was away back, and that sounded—so odd.” Seton Pasha, who occupied the lounge-chair upon the broad arm of which his wife was seated, looked up, smiling into the suddenly flushed face. They were but newly returned from their honeymoon, and had just taken possession of their home, for Seton was now stationed in Cairo. He flicked a cone of ash from his cheroot. “It seems to me that we are all more or less indebted to one another,” he declared. “For instance, I might never have met you, Margaret, if I had not run into your cousin that eventful night at Princes; and Gray would not have been gazing abstractedly out of the doorway if Mrs. Irvin had joined him for dinner as arranged. One can trace almost every episode in life right back, and ultimately come—” “To Kismet!” cried his wife, laughing merrily. “So before we begin dinner tonight—which is a night of reunion—I am going to propose a toast to Kismet!” “Good!” said Seton, “we shall all drink it gladly. Eh, Irvin?” “Gladly, indeed,” agreed Monte Irvin. “You know, Seton,” he continued, “we have been wandering, Rita and I; and ever since your wife handed her patient over to me as cured we have covered some territory. I don’t know if you or Chief Inspector Kerry has been responsible, but the press accounts of the Kazmah affair have been scanty to baldness. One stray bit of news reached us—in Colorado, I think.” “What was that, Mr. Irvin?” asked Margaret, leaning towards the speaker. “It was about Mollie Gretna. Someone wrote and told me that she had eloped with a billiard marker—a married man with five children!” Seton laughed heartily, and so did Margaret and Rita. “Right!” cried Seton. “She did. When last heard of she was acting as barmaid in a Portsmouth tavern!” But Monte Irvin did not laugh. “Poor, foolish girl!” he said gravely. “Her life might have been so different—so useful and happy.”