“My own aunt was of a similar obstinacy,” he murmured.  He added, “This fortune you speak of—­it comes through my wife?”

“For her inheritors.  Madame Delcasse—­the former Madame Delcasse I should say—­left but one daughter?”

Again the pasha bowed and again Ryder felt the throb of triumph.  He looked upon his friend with admiration.  How marvelously McLean had worked the miracle.  No accusations, no threats, no obstacles, no blank walls of denial!  Not a ruffle of discord in the establishment of these salient facts—­the marriage of Madame Delcasse to the pasha and the existence of the daughter.

Wonderful man—­McLean.  He had never half appreciated him.

But the pasha was not wholly the simple assenter.

“Do I understand,” he inquired, “that there is a fortune coming from France for my daughter?” And at McLean’s confirmation, “And when you say fortune,” he continued, “you intend to say—?” and his glance now took in the silent American, considering that some cue must be his.

But McLean responded.  “The figures are not to be divulged—­not until the aunt is in communication with her niece.  But they will be large, monsieur, for this aunt is a person of great wealth.”

“And yet alive to enjoy it,” said Tewfick with smiling eyes.

“An aged and dying woman,” thrust in Ryder in haste.  “Her only care now is to see her niece before she dies.”

“Ah!...  But that could be arranged,” said Tewfick amiably.

“We have at once communicated with France,” McLean told him, “but we came instantly to you, to, inform you—­”

“A thousand thanks and a thousand!  The bearers of good tidings,” smiled their host.

“Because we understand that there is a question of the young lady’s marriage,” pursued McLean, “and you would, of course, wish to defer this until these new circumstances are complied with.”

The pasha stared.  “Not at all.  A fortune is as pleasant to a wife as to a maid.”

“There are so many questions of law,” offered McLean with purposeful vagueness.  “French wardship and trusteeship and all that.  It would be advisable, I think, to wait.”

“Absurd,” said the pasha easily.

“You would want no doubts cast upon the legality of the marriage,” McLean persisted thoughtfully, “and since mademoiselle is under age and the French law has certain restrictions—­”

“Pff!  We are not under the French law—­at least I have not heard that England has relinquished her power,” retorted Tewfick not without malice.

“But Mademoiselle Delcasse is French,” thrust in Ryder.  He knew that McLean had ventured as far as he, an official and responsible person, could go, and that the burden of intimation must rest upon himself.  “And under her father’s will his family there is considered in trusteeship.  So there would be certain technicalities that must be considered before any marriage can be arranged, the signature of the French guardian, the settlement of the dot—­this inheritance, for instance—­all mere formalities but involving a little delay.”