Once more the party at the Mission met on the terrace after dinner to discuss coffee and things in general, and once again Chanda Lal interrupted the harmony of the group. Stratford was in the midst of a description of some political crisis which had occurred at Czarigrad during his residence there, when the bearer mounted the steps and made his way noiselessly to Sir Dugald’s side. “Highness, in the court there is an old man wrapped in a mantle, who wishes to see you. He says he is the Amir Jahan Beg.” Low as were Chanda Lal’s tones, the rest of the party heard the words, and a thrill of excitement ran through them. Why should this notoriously anti-foreign ruler come disguised and under cover of night to see Sir Dugald? Surely the situation promised fresh developments? But Sir Dugald was neither flattered nor interested. “This is beyond endurance!” he exclaimed, wrathfully. “It was bad enough to be disturbed in the evening by that American fellow; but for a native it is a little too much! The door is shut, bearer.” “I bring a message to the Queen of England’s Envoy from Rustam Khan,” said a crisp, penetrating voice in Ethiopian; and the startled hearers turned to see an elderly man with a grey beard standing on the steps behind them, his head and shoulders still shrouded in his cloak. “Let the Envoy bid the servant depart and I will do my errand.” “You can go, bearer,” said Sir Dugald. “By the bye, we shall want Mr Kustendjian,” he added, and rose to call back Chanda Lal, but the stranger stepped before him, and laid a hand upon his arm. “There is no need of an interpreter,” said Jahan Beg in English. “Haigh--Dugald Haigh--have you forgotten me?” “Good heavens!” cried Sir Dugald, stepping back. “Can it be possible? You are John Bigg--the man who disappeared?” “Exactly,” said Jahan Beg. “The man who disappeared, and made a nine days’ wonder for his friends at Tajpur, every one of whom had a separate discreditable theory to account for his disappearance.” “That was quite unnecessary,” returned Sir Dugald, “for any one who knew you and knew Beatrice Wynn.” “As you did? Well--by the bye, what has become of Beatrice Wynn?” “Dead, years ago. Typhoid--in Assam somewhere.” “And for years I have been dead in Ethiopia. Young men”--he turned suddenly to the staff, who had been endeavouring, with indifferent success, to get up an interest in conversation among themselves--“let me give you a warning. Never throw up everything for a woman’s sake. Never spoil your lives because you have been disappointed in love. There is not a woman on earth that’s worth it.” “Present company always excepted, of course,” said Fitz, with a bow to Lady Haigh and Georgia. Jahan Beg looked at him with a grim smile.