“Read that, Dugald!” she cried, flinging it down before him, “and then leave those papers and go and see the Pasha at once. You must do it.” “H’m,” said Sir Dugald, lifting his eyebrows as he took up the letter; “the doctor in trouble again, I suppose? Ah!” as he read it, “this is what Miss Anstruther was afraid of, is it? Poor girl! It might be the best thing for her that he should disappear;” but he rose, nevertheless, and began to put away his papers. “What a mercy that Cecil is not here!” burst from Lady Haigh. “The anxiety would kill her. I only hope that she will stay quietly in the mountains until we hear something certain. Do go, Dugald.” Sir Dugald was already starting, and reached the Palace unheralded, regardless of the etiquette for which he was generally so rigorous a stickler. The Pasha received him with some trepidation. As soon as his Excellency was told that the Balio Bey wished to see him, an uneasy conscience led him to recall uncomfortably a few of his recent acts of government, and in particular to wonder whether the length of Jamileh Khanum’s latest dressmaker’s bill, and the means adopted to satisfy the Parisian firm interested, had become public. He was proportionately relieved on finding that Sir Dugald’s visit had nothing to do with any of his own peccadilloes, but concerned only the English doctor, whose existence, as well as his sudden departure from Baghdad, the Pasha had forgotten long ago. Little time was needed to show that his Excellency knew nothing of Dr Egerton’s proceedings or of his fate. “I must ask your Excellency to let Azim Bey be summoned,” said Sir Dugald, when he had satisfied himself of the Pasha’s innocence. “No stone must be left unturned to solve this mystery.” Azim Bey was sent for, and presently appeared, attended by Masûd. Glancing from one to the other of the occupants of the room, and noticing that his father looked perturbed and the Balio Bey stern, he felt a sudden conviction that the reward of his youthful misdeeds was at hand. “Question my son yourself, my dear Balio,” said the Pasha, in his most urbane manner; and the culprit, shaking with misgiving, found himself set down opposite the terrible Balio Bey, who looked at him fixedly for a moment. “Bey,” he said at last, “where is Dr Egerton?” Azim Bey’s courage was rapidly oozing away, but he made a brave attempt to turn the question aside in a sportive and natural manner. “How, then?” he asked. “Do you ask me about Dr Egerton, M. le Balio? Surely it is said that no Englishman can enter the pashalik without your knowing all about him at once?”