CHAPTER XXX.

MARGUERITE DEVINA

“The Moving Finger,” which waits for no man, moved on. But Zalithea

did not return. The police had relaxed their efforts. They had nothing

to work upon. It was obviously impossible to place the hieratic letter

in their hands. Nor did its arrival assist the investigations of the

private agency employed by John Cumberland.

He allowed them to examine it, saying that the writing was believed to

be in Princess Zalithea’s hand. They tried to trace the maker of the

paper and of the envelope which had enclosed it, but failed. Their

final effort was directed to the discovery of the messenger who had

put the letter in the box. A reward of five thousand dollars was

offered. No one claimed it.

During these anxious days, Barry had not neglected the house of Mr.

Brown. In a despairing effort, he had had the history of this country

home examined--in vain. The property had changed hands during his

absence in Egypt, and little could be learned of the former owner or

of his associates. Agents had handled the transactions in both cases.

The housekeeper--once interviewed by Jim Sakers--could not be traced.

The nine days’ wonder lived its allotted span; and the world in

general began to forget Princess Zalithea, who had flashed, a dazzling

meteor, across the social sky of New York, and, like a meteor, had

vanished.

But Barry did not forget. He was not of those who love and ride away.

For him a dream had come true--a dream held like a crucifix through

years of waiting. He had lived in a heaven of moments. He had been

snatched back to earth. And he was lonely.

One faith he had. To this he remained true; it saved him from despair.

Zalithea was alive; so was Safîyeh. Somewhere, they were together.

And one day he would find them. Despite official evidence proving that

no such persons had departed from the port of New York, a conviction

was growing in his mind that Zalithea had returned to Egypt.

John Cumberland’s anxiety, divided from the first, began now to centre

upon Barry. Professor Blackwell, feeling that he might hope to walk

the streets again without being accosted by newspaper representatives,

had returned to his usual quarters. And one evening the two old

friends dined together at the University Club, to discuss the question

of Barry’s welfare.

“Bob Sakers couldn’t join us for dinner,” said Cumberland, when the

Professor arrived, “but he’s dropping in later.”

“Danbazzar is still away?”

“Yes,” John Cumberland nodded. “The publicity attaching to this

unhappy affair came very near home, I think. His apartment is shut up.

I shouldn’t wonder if he stays away for a long time.”

“Quite--quite,” murmured the Professor. “Of course, for my part, I

confess I am floored. I don’t dare to think about it. The whole thing,

from that unimaginable moment in the tomb up to the time that you

received this incredible letter, often seems to me to be unreal--a

nightmare.”

“Yes,” John Cumberland agreed, “it doesn’t seem real. But--” he

sighed--“it has ruined Barry.”

“Poor boy--poor boy. She was very lovely, Cumberland.”

A long silence fell between them, until:

“Do you ever ask yourself,” said John Cumberland, “if she

was--natural?”

“My dear fellow,” the Professor returned, “I have asked myself that

question a hundred times! And I think it has been answered for us.”

“How? In what way?”

“By her disappearance.”

John Cumberland stared, and:

“I don’t think I follow,” he declared.

“If,” explained Professor Blackwell slowly, “Zalithea was

supernatural, certainly Safîyeh was not. But Safîyeh disappeared

with her!”

His friend considered the words for some time, and at last:

“I see the point,” he said. “It’s a new one, I admit.”

When, later, Jim Sakers’s father joined them, he put the case before

him bluntly.

“This thing has knocked Barry sideways,” he told Robert Sakers. “In

confidence, it’s touch and go. Blackwell will bear me out.”

“I have watched Barry,” the latter admitted; “and I am certain that

he’s on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He is crazy to go back to

Egypt, via London and Paris. We don’t hope that he will find the girl,

Sakers; we don’t expect so much. But I am quite positive that the

journey will save him. Now--he can’t go alone. It’s out of the

question. Jim is his oldest friend, and you can very well spare him

for a month or six weeks----”

“I’m not asking you to stand the damage, Sakers,” John Cumberland

interrupted. “It wouldn’t be fair on top of the inconvenience of

losing your right-hand man.”

“Leave that part out,” said Robert Sakers. “Let’s get down to dates.”

And as a result of the conference which followed, some ten days later

Jim Sakers found himself, with Barry, bound for Europe. His profound

and ceaseless amazement, expressed at great length, was an antidote to

poor Barry’s melancholy--as it was designed to be.

New environment and the magic of sea breezes aided the cure; and after

an idle week in London, during which Barry’s restlessness seemed to

have abated in a measure, they crossed to Paris.

The faithful Jim cabled an enthusiastic report home; and perhaps

Barry, by this time, had begun to realize that the journey was

intended to be a “cure” and to reconcile his overwrought mind to the

idea of resignation. But what he did not realize, what neither of them

realized, was that they were helpless in the “moving row” of which old

Omar spoke, and that they were being danced impotent toward that

inevitable end designed by “the Master of the Show.”

Paris proved rather a setback. It provoked memories which brought

about in Barry a relapse into melancholy. Jim worked like a Trojan to

arouse him from his mournful apathy.

“Regard, oh, regard the glitter of the boulevard,” he invited, as they

sat outside a popular café in the sunshine. “Unknown to the old folks

at home, in their sleepy village adjacent to the delta of the

Hudson----”

“The Hudson has no delta,” Barry murmured.

“Let that pass. But still unknown to them, whether they have a delta

or not, here we sit sipping perfectly good wine at a price for which

we could not obtain a cup of coffee in our little home town.

Therefore, let us rejoice! And, lo! here come soldiers--complete with

band! Let us cheer!”

A small party of infantry marched past, accompanied by a large band.

Jim stood up, watching them enthusiastically and talking away all the

time. Receiving no criticisms from Barry, he turned.

His flow of nonsense was checked.

Barry, pale as death, clutching the edge of the marble-topped table,

was staring--staring--across the street, his ghastly features those of

one who sees a ghost!

“Barry!” Jim gasped. “Barry!”

Barry did not stir. When he spoke his voice was a whisper.

“Jim,” he said, “_I have seen her!_”

“What!”

“She has just gone into the perfumers’ shop opposite.”

“Barry!” Jim grasped his shoulder. “Wake up, man! You are

daydreaming.”

“Watch until she comes out,” the monotonous whisper went on. “Don’t

let her see you, for God’s sake. But follow her, Jim--don’t lose sight

of her--until you find out where she is living.”

“But, Barry,” Jim began, a note of profound anxiety in his voice,

when:

“Quick! There she goes!” he was interrupted.

He looked across the street. He gasped audibly; then:

“Wait for me here!” he said tersely.

Zalithea, carrying a small parcel, had just come out of the shop and

was walking away!

Jim Sakers experienced a sense of sudden acute exhilaration. The

wildly unforeseen had happened! And at last he was going to be of real

use to his friend! What it all meant was outside the province of his

mental powers. Who this mysterious girl really was who had so

hopelessly bewitched Barry he had never been able to understand. Nor

could he comprehend how she could possibly have reached Paris without

the knowledge of the American authorities.

But unmistakably it was Princess Zalithea and none other who walked

along before him. Her lithe figure, her graceful carriage, the very

turn of her head when she paused to look in a shop window were

familiar to the man who had met her many times in New York.

From the crowded boulevard into which she had turned on coming out of

the perfumers’ she entered a side street. Jim didn’t know the name

either of the street or the boulevard. His bump of locality was low.

But he knew that he wasn’t going to lose sight of her if he had to

follow her around Paris all day!

He was turning a problem over in his mind as he tracked the trim,

leisurely figure. What should he do if she saw him?

Zalithea came out onto another boulevard and waited at the corner of

the street for a moment. Evidently she was going to cross. She did so,

and Jim was delayed by the eccentric Paris traffic. When he finally

ran over, for a moment he lost her. Then, just disappearing around the

corner of the next street along, he saw the smart figure again.

He hurried to the spot, swung round the corner--and saw Zalithea

entering a discreet-looking hotel on the same side. He was in the

lobby a minute later--and she was talking to a clerk at the desk!

Jim turned his back and stared out into the street through the glass

doors. The lobby was small. He could hear every word spoken at the

desk. And what he heard gave him the crowning surprise of the morning.

“No, madam--” the clerk spoke perfect English--“no American mail has

come in yet.”

“Thank you. If any comes later will you please send it right up?”

_The speaker was Zalithea!_

Astounded--thrown off his guard--Jim turned and met Zalithea face to

face!

“Princess!” he said. “You remember me!”

The girl’s white teeth closed sharply on her lower lip. She nearly

dropped the parcel she was carrying, but just managed to recover it.

She flushed and as quickly paled. But she looked at him

unflinchingly--and he knew her long, dark eyes.

“You have made a strange mistake,” she said, evenly. “I am not a

princess and I don’t know you.”

Jim wondered if he were going mad. The clerk was watching him

dubiously, so was a hall porter.

“But--” he floundered--“but----” The dark eyes remained fixed upon him

inscrutably. “I’m sorry. Forgive me. But it’s miraculous.”

She turned and walked out of the lobby. Jim did not afterward remember

having seen her leave. It was the scrutiny of the officials that

brought him to his senses and sharpened his ready wits. He turned to

the clerk, taking a card from his wallet. It was the card of a member

of the agency recently employed by John Cumberland!

He tossed it on the desk, and:

“You no doubt wonder what I’m up to?” he said breezily. “There’s the

answer!”

“Oh!” muttered the clerk, glancing at the name. “I see. But you were

wrong, weren’t you?”

“I’m afraid so,” Jim confessed--“quite wrong!” He stared at a menu

that chanced to lie near and learned that he was in the Hôtel

Chatham. “Nothing for the Chatham to worry about!” he added

reassuringly. “But I should like to make my apologies. _We_ have a

reputation, too!” He drew a pencil from his pocket. “What is the name

of the lady I so unfortunately insulted?”

“She is a Miss Marguerite Devina of New Jersey, U.S.A.”

“Thanks,” said Jim, making a note of it. “Here alone?”

“Yes. I believe she is expecting relatives to-day.”

“Much obliged.”

Jim nodded in a brusque fashion based upon that of the lawful owner of

the card and stepped out into the street.

The street gained, his assured manner deserted him. He was the most

hopelessly bewildered American in Paris. What in the name of sanity

should he tell Barry? That this _was_ Princess Zalithea he would have

been prepared to declare upon oath. Besides, good actress though he

granted her to be, she had failed to hide her surprise at sight of

him. He had seen her bite her lip--to check what? A sudden utterance

of his name? Probably. Her changed colour, her trembling hands, proved

that she had recognized him.

It was she. But what did it mean?

How could he face Barry with such a story?

Turning these problems over in his mind, he plodded back to the café.

From afar he saw Barry--watching. At sight of Jim he jumped up and ran

to meet him.

“Tell me!” he cried, his eyes feverishly bright. “Where does she

live?”

“At the Hôtel Chatham.”

“Thank God! And she didn’t see you?”

“But she did!”

“What!”

“Come back and sit down, Barry,” Jim urged. “Get a grip on yourself.

We’re together in this thing. Let me order you a glass of good

cognac.”

“You’re hiding something!”

“I’ll give you the story word for word when you have sat down and had

a drink and lighted your pipe. Not a damn’ syllable before!”

He had his way, for he could be very truculent at times; and poor

Barry Cumberland was a parody of his old masterful self. So, while

Barry smoked furiously the story was told--a stranger story than any

Jim had ever expected to have to tell. In conclusion:

“If _you_ are mad,” he said, “I’m mad, too! Because Miss Marguerite

Devina is Princess Zalithea. But Princess Zalithea only spoke

_gazoobi_ or _swahili_--and Miss Devina speaks perfect English. Now

search me! _Garçon, deux cognacs!_”

The chairs about them were becoming filled with loungers, as the day

wore on to noon. A cosmopolitan crowd thronged the street and the

neighbouring boulevard. Somewhere near by an orchestra had begun to

play a melody very popular in New York. Newsboys shouted. Drivers of

carts shouted. Everybody shouted.

But Barry was silent. At last:

“Well?” Jim inquired. “What do we do now?”

“I have just decided,” Barry replied quietly. “It will be best for you

to stay where you are at the Meurice. We don’t want to frighten her.

But I shall transfer to the Chatham, at once.”