"I haven't a doubt of it," said Ryder quickly, "but the French law might begin to entertain doubts of it, if mademoiselle were married off now without consultation with the authorities.... Already," he added a little meaningly, as the other shrugged the suggestion away, "there have been questions raised concerning the mother's marriage and the separation of the little Mademoiselle Delcassé from her relatives in France, and now if she were to be married without any legal settlement of her estate--" Steadily he sustained the other's gaze, while his unfinished thought seemed to float significantly in the air about them. "Have a cigarette," said the pasha hospitably, extending a gold case monogrammed with diamonds and emeralds. "Ah, coffee!" he announced, welcomingly, as a little black boy entered with a brass tray of steaming cups. "I hope, gentlemen, that you like my coffee. It is not the usual Turkish brew. No, this comes from Aden, the finest coffee in the world. A ship captain brings it to me, especially." Beamingly he sipped the scalding stuff, then darted back to that suspended sentence. "But you were saying--something of a trusteeship?... Do I understand that it is an aunt of Madame Delcassé--the former Madame Delcassé--who is leaving this money?" "Not of Madame but of Monsieur Delcassé," McLean informed him. "Ah!... That accounts ... But in that case, then, there need be no concern in France over my daughter's marriage...." He turned his round eyes from one to the other a moment. "There is no Mademoiselle Delcassé." "Sir?" said Ryder sharply. "There is no Mademoiselle Delcassé," repeated the pasha, his eyes frankly enlivened. "But--we have just been speaking--you cannot mean to say--" "We have been speaking of my daughter--the daughter of the former Madame Delcassé." Smilingly he looked upon them. "A pity that we did not understand each other. But you appear to know so much--and I supposed that you knew that, too, that the daughter of Monsieur Delcassé was dead." Neither of the young men spoke. McLean looked politely attentive; Ryder's face maintained that look of concentration which guarded the fluctuations of his feelings. "It was many years ago," the pasha murmured, putting down his coffee cup and selecting another cigarette. "Not long after her mother's marriage to me.... A very charming little girl--I was positively attached to her," Tewfick added reminiscently. "Well, well, well, what a pity now," said McLean very slowly. "This will be a great disappointment.... And so the present mademoiselle--" "Is my daughter." McLean was silent. Ryder could hardly trust himself to speak. "What did she die of?" he asked at last, in a voice whose edged quality brought the pasha's glance to him with a flash of hostility behind its veil. But he answered calmly enough. "Of the fever, monsieur.... She was never strong." "And her grave... I should like to make a report."