Her hand was warm. The little slender fingers clung tremulously. At their touch, his ghostly imaginings fled. She was real, a girl of flesh and blood; not a phantom, but a living, lovely testimony to the wisdom of a past science. If only he could get used to that idea! In silence, as they had come, they walked back; like two children, hand in hand. And standing in the entrance to the hotel were Mr. Tawwab and Danbazzar. “I am most indebted to His Excellency,” boomed the latter’s great voice, “for this offer of his service. But the lady has been entrusted to me by her father, and I have just left the American Consul----” “H’m,” murmured Mr. Tawwab, his sly eyes lighting up as he saw the slender, approaching figure; “you have seen him to-night?” “Sure,” said Danbazzar. “All’s clear. A few formalities in the morning, that’s all.” “But,” Mr. Tawwab interpolated gently, “as the young lady belongs to El-Kasr, you tell me, this matter does not concern your consul. El-Kasr is in the _mudiriya_ of Minia!” “I’ve seen the Mudîr of Minia, sir!” Danbazzar replied. “I arrived in Minia last night. That’s where I’ve come from. Believe me, I know the ropes of your country, Mr. Tawwab, although I’m greatly obliged to you. Our consul has got to give me a visé for the United States, that’s all. I’ve arranged the rest.” “The Mudîr of Minia is very obliging.” “Most obliging man in Egypt, bar none!” boomed Danbazzar. “Always was an obliging man.” Zalithea passed in to the hotel, Barry following. From a hidden bench a slim, black-robed figure arose, bowing low. “_Lêltak sa’îda, effendim_,” said a soft voice. Barry started, peering into the shadows; then: “_Lêltak sa’îda, Hassan es-Sugra!_” he replied. CHAPTER XXVI. IN NEW YORK A month later, to a day, Barry from the boat deck of the _Berengaria_ pointed out Ambrose Light to Zalithea. She clutched his arm to steady herself in the high wind, nestling, furry, very close to him. As he looked down at her he found himself thinking not of the camp in the _wâdi_, nor even of the tomb; not of the ancient wonders of Egypt; nor even of those few delightful days in Paris and the later joy of taking Zalithea around London. He found himself thinking of Hassan es-Sugra. Hassan had seen the party off at Luxor, bringing a great bundle of flowers for Zalithea. Where everyone else was hurrying and bustling, Hassan had walked calmly up and down the platform with Barry. His eyes, which were so like the eyes of a gazelle, had been sad. But his words, softly intoned yet laden with some deep significance, had remained with Barry like the haunting memory of a song: