It would only tax Jinny's credulity and hurt her feelings. And he liked Jinny--though not as he liked Queen Hatasu or the little nameless creature he had dug out of a king's ante-room. Jinny was an interfering modern. She was the incarnation of impossible demands. But of course there was no real reason why he should not stop over and go to the dance. * * * * * Ten minutes later, when she had extracted his promise and abandoned him to the costumers, he was scourging his weakness. He had known better! Very well, then, let him take his medicine. Let him go as--here he disgustedly eyed the garment that the Greek was presenting--as Little Lord Fauntleroy! He deserved it. Shudderingly he looked away from the pretty velvet suit; he scorned the monk's robes that were too redolent of former wearers; he rejected the hot livery of a Russian mujik; he flouted the banality of the Pierrot pantaloons. Thankfully he remembered McLean. Kilts, that was the thing. Tartans, the real Scotch plaids. Some use, now, McLean's precious sporrans.... He'd look him up at once. Out of the crowded Mograby he made his way on foot to the Esbekeyih quarters where the streets were wider and emptier of Cairene traffickers and shrill itinerates and laden camels and jostling donkeys. It was a glorious day, a day of Egypt's blue and gold. The sky was a wash of water color; the streets a flood of molten amber. A little wind from the north rustled the acacias and blew in his bronzed face cool reminders of the widening Nile and dancing waves. He remembered a chap he knew, who had a sailing canoe--but no, he was going to get a costume for a fool ball! Disgustedly he turned into the very modern and official-looking residence that was the home of his friend, Andrew McLean, and the offices of that far-reaching institution, the Agricultural Bank. A white-robed, red-sashed and red-fezed houseboy led him across the tiled entrance into the long room where McLean was concluding a conference with two men. "Not the least trace," McLean was saying. "We've questioned all our native agents--" Afterwards Ryder remembered that indefinite little pause. If the two men had not lingered--if McLean had not remembered that he was an excavator--if chance had not brushed the scales with lightning wings--! "Ever hear of a chap called Delcassé, Paul Delcassé, a French excavator?" McLean suddenly asked of him. "Disappeared in the desert about fifteen years ago." "He was reported, monsieur, to have died of the fever," one of the men explained. McLean introduced him as a special agent from France. His companion was one of the secretaries of the French legation. They were trying every quarter for traces of this Delcassé. Ryder's memory darted back to old library shelves. He saw a thin, brown volume, almost uncut.... "He wrote a book on the Tomb of Thi," he said suddenly. "Paul Delcassé--I remember it very well."