They made their way back to the hotel, dined in a cool, bare room, and sauntered out again into the streets.  The Professor led the way to a little building, outside which a man was volubly inviting all to enter.

“You shall see one of the sights of Port Said,” he promised.  “This is a real Egyptian dancing girl.”

They took their seats in the front row of a dimly-lit, bare-looking room.  The stage was dark and empty.  From some unseen place came the monotonous rhythm of a single instrument.  They waited for some time in vain.  At last one or two lights in front were lit, the music grew more insistent.  A girl who seemed to be dressed in little more than a winding veil, glided on to the stage, swaying and moving slowly to the rhythm of the monotonous music.  She danced a measure which none of them except the Professor had ever seen before, coming now and then so close that they could almost feel her hot breath, and Lenora felt somehow vaguely disturbed by the glitter of her eyes.  An odd perfume was shaken into the air around them from her one flowing garment, through which her limbs continually flashed.  Lenora looked away.

“I don’t like it,” she said to Quest simply.

Suddenly Laura leaned forward.

“Look at the Professor,” she whispered.

They all turned their heads.  A queer change seemed to have come into the Professor’s face.  His teeth were gleaming between his parted lips, his head was a little thrust forward, his eyes were filled with a strange, hard light.  He was a transformed being, unrecognisable, perturbing.  Even while they watched, the girl floated close to where he sat and leaned towards him with a queer, mocking smile.  His hand suddenly descended upon her foot.  She laughed still more.  There was a little exclamation from Lenora.  The Professor’s whole frame quivered, he snatched the anklet from the girl’s ankle and bent over it.  She leaned towards him, a torrent of words streaming from her lips.  The Professor answered her in her own language.  She listened to him in amazement.  The anger passed.  She held out both her hands.  The Professor still argued.  She shook her head.  Finally he placed some gold in her palms.  She patted him on the cheek, laughed into his eyes, pointed behind and resumed her dancing.  The anklet remained in the Professor’s hand.

“Say, we’ll get out of this,” Quest said.  “The girls have had enough.”

The Professor made no objection.  He led the way, holding the anklet all the time close to his eyes, and turning it round.  They none of them spoke to him, yet they were all conscious of an immense sense of relief when, after they had passed into the street, he commenced to talk in his natural voice.

“Congratulate me,” he said.  “I have been a collector of Assyrian gold ornaments all my life.  This is the one anklet I needed to complete my collection.  It has the double mark of the Pharaohs.  I recognised it at once.  There are a thousand like it, you would think, in the bazaars there.  In reality there may be, perhaps, a dozen more in all Egypt which are genuine.”