"
"I think she made a shrewd guess, but was unwilling to alarm you. That
is why she sent Mr. Royson after us. By the way, what, did she tell him
to do?"
"I have no idea," said Irene coldly.
"That is odd, distinctly odd. I meant to ask him, but forgot it in my
excitement."
"He will be here in a few minutes," said she, with a livelier interest.
There was a knock at the door. A negro waiter had something to say, and
she gathered from a jumble of Italian and Arabic that a native wished
to see the Signora Haxton. The man pronounced the name plainly, so
there could be no mistake as to his meaning, and Irene answered:
"The Signora is not here."
Mr. Fenshawe was immersed in his letters again, but he looked up.
"What is it?" he demanded.
"Some man is asking for Mrs. Haxton," she told him.
"Better go and interview him. If he can tell us anything, bring him
here."
She went down-stairs with the attendant. He pointed to a muffled Arab
near the door, who salaamed deeply the instant she appeared.
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