“You have done nothing,” replied Lord Wrexborough “which an honorable man may not do.  But in common with many others similarly circumstanced, you seem inclined, now that your military duties are at an end, to regard life as a sort of perpetual ‘leave.’  I speak frankly before Seton because I know that he agrees with me.  My friend the Foreign Secretary has generously offered you an appointment which opens up a career that should not—­I repeat, that should not prove less successful than his own.”

Gray turned, and his face had flushed deeply.

“I know that Margaret has been scaring you about Rita Irvin,” he said, “but on my word, sir, there was no need to do it.”

He met Seton Pasha’s cool regard, and: 

“Margaret’s one of the best,” he added.  “I know you agree with me?”

A faint suggestion of added color came into Seton’s tanned cheeks.

“I do, Gray,” he answered quietly.  “I believe you are good enough to look upon me as a real friend; therefore allow me to add my advice, for what it is worth, to that of Lord Wrexborough and your cousin:  take the Egyptian appointment.  I know where it will lead.  You can do no good by remaining in London; and when we find Mrs. Irvin your presence would be an embarrassment to the unhappy man who waits for news at Prince’s Gate.  I am frank, but it’s my way.”

He held out his hand, smiling.  Quentin Gray’s mercurial complexion was changing again, but: 

“Good old Seton!” he said, rather huskily, and gripped the outstretched hand.  “For Irvin’s sake, save her!”

He turned to his father.

“Thank you, sir,” he added, “you are always right.  I shall be ready on Tuesday.  I suppose you are off again, Seton?”

“I am,” was the reply.  “Chief Inspector Kerry is moving heaven and earth to find the Kazmah establishment, and I don’t want to come in a poor second.”

Lord Wrexborough cleared his throat and turned in the padded revolving chair.

“Honestly, Seton,” he said, “what do you think of your chance of success?”

Seton Pasha smiled grimly.

“Many ascribe success to wit,” he replied, “and failure to bad luck; but the Arab says ‘Kismet.’”

CHAPTER XXXVIII

THE SONG OF SIN SIN WA

Mrs. Sin, aroused by her husband from the deep opium sleep, came out into the fume-laden vault.  Her dyed hair was disarranged, and her dark eyes stared glassily before her; but even in this half-drugged state she bore herself with the lithe carriage of a dancer, swinging her hips lazily and pointing the toes of her high-heeled slippers.

“Awake, my wife,” crooned Sin Sin Wa.  “Only a fool seeks the black smoke when the jackals sit in a ring.”

Mrs. Sin gave him a glance of smiling contempt—­a glance which, passing him, rested finally upon the prone body of Chief Inspector Kerry lying stretched upon the floor before the stove.  Her pupils contracted to mere pin-points and then dilated blackly.  She recoiled a step, fighting with the stupor which her ill-timed indulgence had left behind.