“One day, sir, you will come again to Egypt. Some of your friends, now, will not be your friends then. You will learn to forgive me if I have failed you in anything and come and tell me so. For in the end understanding will be. There is one thing, sir, I have to say to you: they tell me the lady is of El-Kasr. It is not so. I cannot say where she is of. But this I know--she is not of Egypt. She is very sad at heart. If, one day, she tells you why, be not angry with her.” Then the train had moved out. Barry’s last impression of Luxor was that of the graceful, black-robed figure of Hassan es-Sugra, his hand raised to his forehead in a parting salute. “Be not angry with her.…” He looked down at the bewitching face half hidden in fur. Sea breezes had whipped a delicious colour into the soft cheeks--down which big tears were falling! “Zalithea!” he cried. “My dear! what is it?” She looked up at him quickly, blinking tears away; then: “Sorree,” she whispered. This word, “sorry,” she had acquired in London, but he knew that she employed it in the sense of “sad.” He squeezed her arm reassuringly. He had long since decided that her courage was miraculous--unfaltering. Now, he tried to imagine what supreme dread--what rankling doubt--what sorrow for some long lost one had broken it. It was always so with him. In the most perfect moments of understanding it would come--that inscrutable curtain; the veil of an unimaginable past. Once, and once only, he had tried to ask her what he longed so ardently to know: if she remembered ever having met him before. By some unsuspected law of preordination alone could he hope to explain those visions. Had he not seen her as he was destined later to see her--in the dress of Ancient Egypt? Had he not seen her as she looked during the early days in Luxor--veiled like the women of Islam? He thought he had made her understand. But instead of answering she had turned her back and walked away! Did the question transgress some strange law, known to her but unknown to him? There were times when his brain reeled. And now, with the American coast in sight, she was weeping; she was “sorree.” He wondered hopelessly what her thoughts were at this hour. “She is very sad at heart,” Hassan had said. How clearly he recalled the words of that extraordinary man.… And then, before Barry realized the passage of time, they were in sight of the familiar skyscrapers. Zalithea’s mood had changed. The child had come uppermost again. She clapped her hands gleefully, grasping Barry’s arm and pointing to the skyline of New York. “Fo-ah _me?_” she asked. Barry nodded, laughing. “I trust,” murmured Professor Blackwell, “she is not labouring under the delusion that you are the king of this country!”