Her lips were parted in a half-frightened smile. Exultant, like a roll of Titanic war drums, thunder crashed and boomed and beat out its fury in dying echoes. Across the feathery crests of the acacias their glances met.… Barry uttered an involuntary cry. The storm was forgotten. The world was forgotten. Out into the drenching downpour he ran, across to the gate and on, up the gravelled path, to the discreet, glazed door. She had fled at sight of him. The balcony above was empty; but the window remained open. He rang, but without result. He rang again--and again--and again. He rang continuously. The door was opened. And he found himself looking into a wrinkled Arab face. “Safîyeh!” he exclaimed. She smiled, unsurprisedly, and stood aside to allow him to enter. He discovered himself in a little lobby furnished throughout in Egyptian fashion. There were antique tables and figures of the gods of the Nile. There was a fresco of subjects from Der-el-Bahari. A perforated silver lamp hung from the ceiling. And the air was laden with a faint perfume, the indescribable smell of Egypt. Safîyeh raised a tapestry curtain and again stood aside. Barry went into the room beyond. This apartment was littered with every imaginable kind of relic, from exquisite enamel necklaces to mummied cats. At sight of the treasures contained there, Barry was transported in spirit to a similar room high above the turmoil of New York, where once he had sat in conference with Horace Pain, Dr. Rittenburg, and others. Leaning upon a mantelpiece composed of carved red granite fragments adapted to the purpose was a tall man, the collar of whose white shirt fell open at the neck, while the sleeves were rolled up on muscular arms. One elbow rested on the ledge; the clenched fist supported a handsome, leonine head. A scarab ring glittered on his finger, as, raising the other hand to remove a cigar which he was smoking, he bowed in courteous greeting. “Danbazzar!” cried Barry. A roll of distant thunder from the moving storm echoed and reëchoed over Paris. “Paul Ahmes, at your service, sir!” Danbazzar corrected him. “But the former, if you prefer it. One’s as much mine as the other! Sit down and let’s talk this thing over.” Fascinated against his will, as he had always been fascinated by this man’s extraordinary personality, Barry dropped onto a divan, silenced--stupefied--by the entire self-possession of the speaker. Here was no recognition of wrongdoing; this was not a detected impostor; this was the masterful man to whom obstacles were merely stepping stones, who was fearless as he was unscrupulous. This was Danbazzar.