Under my British name of George MacFarlane I stopped at Shepheard’s Hotel, then the home of all pilgrims, and gave myself up to the enjoyment of new scenes while I waited, in no sense impatiently, for the development of the situation through whose coming I had been summoned. It was at the height of the tourist season, following the Christmas holidays, and there was an abundance of company, made up of cultured Europeans and a few Americans of gentle birth, for that was before Cairo was over-run with the over-rich. The time was delightfully whiled away for a month before anything happened to indicate the reason for my being there, but within less than half of that time I had renewed acquaintance with the man who was really the key to the situation, though I did not suspect it at the time. He and I had been strangely thrown together some years before, under conditions which provoked rather an intimate knowledge of each other, and when we met on the street one day the recognition was instant and mutual. He did not inquire into my business but simply asked what name I was travelling under, in order that he might not embarrass me. He stood in close and confidential relation to Tewfik Pasha, the Khedive, and on that account it is best that there should be no hint, even now, as to his name or nationality. I wished to see the titular ruler of Egypt at close range, and through my old companion-in-arms I secured an invitation to the Khedive’s annual ball at the Abdin Palace. This function, which naturally was the event of the year, was rendered impressive by all the artistry of the East, and it was a most brilliant spectacle. At the ends of every step in the long stairway leading up to the palace stood immobile footmen, who suggested past glories despite their costume, which was decidedly English, save for the ever-present fez. Inside, there was an endless succession of long mirrors set in the walls, which multiplied the jewels of the women and the gay uniforms of the officers and diplomats into a flashing mass of colors; countless palms scattered profusely through the large rooms, and gorgeous chandeliers illuminated with candles, but there was not so much as a hint of furniture. Had there been any place where the guests could lounge or sit, beyond the floor, the chances are that some of them would have stayed there until the next day, at least, in the absence of physical violence as an aid to their departure. The only ladies present were Europeans and some few favored Americans, but from wide corridors behind the musharabiyeh, or fretwork around the frieze of the walls, the Khedivah and her women attendants had a good view of the proceedings without danger of being seen. They were equally secure from any possibility of intrusion, for every avenue that led in their direction was guarded by offensively haughty eunuchs.