He paused a moment, then laid his hand kindly on Denzil’s shoulder.

“Let us go back to Cairo, my boy, and from thence as soon as possible to England.  We shall all be better away from this terrible land, where the dead have far more power than the living!”

Denzil stared at him uncomprehendingly.

“You talk in riddles!” he said, irritably.  “Do you think I shall let Gervase escape me?  I will track him wherever he has gone,—­I daresay I shall find him in Paris.”

Dr. Dean took one or two slow turns up and down the corridor where they were conversing, then stopping abruptly, looked his young friend full and steadily in the eyes.

“Come, come, Denzil.  No more of this folly,” he said, gently.  “Why should you entertain these ideas of vengeance against Gervase?  He has really done you no harm.  He was the natural mate of the woman you imagined you loved,—­the response to her query,—­the other half of her being; and that she was and is his destiny, and he hers, should not excite your envy or hatred.  I say you imagined you loved the Princess Ziska,—­it was a young man’s hot freak of passion for an almost matchless beauty, but no more than that.  And if you would be frank with yourself, you know that passion has already cooled.  I repeat, you will never see Gervase or the Princess Ziska again in this life; so make the best of it.”

“Perhaps you have assisted him to escape me!” said Denzil frigidly.

Dr. Dean smiled.

“That’s rather a rough speech, Denzil!  But never mind!” he returned.  “Your pride is wounded, and you are still sore.  Suspect me as you please,—­make me out a new Pandarus, if you like—­I shall not be offended.  But you know—­for I have often told you—­ that I never interfere in love matters.  They are too explosive, too vitally dangerous; outsiders ought never to meddle with them.  And I never do.  Come back with me to Cairo.  And when we are once more safely established on the solid and unromantic isles of Britain, you will forget all about the Princess Ziska; or if you do remember her, it will only be as a dream in the night, a kind of vague shadow and uncertainty, which will never seriously trouble your mind.  You look incredulous.  I tell you at your age love is little more than a vision; you must wait a few years yet before it becomes a reality, and then Heaven help you, Denzil!—­ for you will be a troublesome fellow to deal with!  Meanwhile, let us get back to Cairo and see Helen.”

Somewhat soothed by the Doctor’s good-nature, and a trifle ashamed of his wrath, Denzil yielded, and the evening saw them both back at the Gezireh Palace Hotel, where of course the news of the sudden disappearance of Armand Gervase with the Princess Ziska created the utmost excitement.  Helen Murray shivered and grew pale as death when she heard it; lively old Lady Fulkeward simpered and giggled, and declared it was “the most delightful thing she had ever