It was after midnight when I returned to Shepheard's, but I went straight to my room, and switching on the table-lamp, wrote a long letter to my principals. Something seemed to have gone wrong with the lock of my attaché-case, and my good humor was badly out of joint by the time that I succeeded in opening it. From underneath a mass of business correspondence I took out a large, sealed envelope, which I enclosed with a letter in one yet larger, to be registered to Messrs. Moses, Murphy & Co., Birmingham, in the morning. I turned in utterly tired but happy, to dream complacently of the smile of Abû Tabâh and of the party of holy men who had journeyed from Ispahân. Exactly a fortnight later the following registered letter was handed to me as I was about to sit down to lunch-- The Hon. Neville Kernaby. Shepheard's Hotel, Cairo, Egypt. DEAR MR. NEVILLE KERNABY-- We are returning herewith the silken veil which you describe as "the authentic _burko_ of the Seyyîdeh Nefîseh, stolen from her shrine in the Tombs of the Khalîfs." Your statement that you can arrange for its purchase at the cost of one thousand pounds does not interest us, nor do we expect so high-salaried an expert as yourself to send us palpable and very inferior forgeries. We are manufacturers of duplicates, not buyers of same. Yours truly, LLOYD LLEWELLYN. (For Messrs. Moses, Murphy & Co.). I was positively aghast. Tearing open the enclosed package, I glared like a madman at the _yashmak_ which it contained. The silk, in comparison with that of which the real veil was compared, was coarse as cocoanut matting; the embroidery was crude; the pearls shrieked "imitation" aloud! At a glance I knew the thing for one of the pair made by Suleyman Levi! The truth crashed in upon my mind. Following my visit to the _harêm_ of Yûssuf Bey, I had bestowed no more than a glance upon the envelope wherein, early on the morning of the same day, I had lovingly sealed the authentic veil; and a full hour had elapsed between the time of parting with the sugar-lipped one and my return to my rooms at the hotel. I understood, now, why the lock of my attaché-case had been out of order on that occasion ... and I comprehended the sweet smile of Abû Tabâh! II THE DEATH-RING OF SNEFERU I The orchestra had just ceased playing; and, taking advantage of the lull in the music, my companion leaned confidentially forward, shooting suspicious glances all around him, although there was nothing about the well-dressed after-dinner throng filling Shepheard's that night to have aroused misgiving in the mind of a cinema anarchist. "I have a very big thing in view," he said, speaking in a husky whisper. "I shall be one up on you, Kernaby, if I pull it off."