r hands, small and soft and warm, and
gently disengaged her. His mind was working clearly and rapidly.
He felt sure of himself, sure of his disguise; if this were an
exhibition of woman's wiles, it would find him proof; on that he
was resolved. Yet, dissolved in tears as she was, with her long
lashes glistening and her mouth twitching pitifully, the dancer
seemed to touch a chord deep down in his heart.

"Come, come," said Desmond gutturally, with a touch of bonhomie
in his voice in keeping with his ample girth, "you mustn't give
way like this, my child! What's amiss? Come, sit down here and
tell me what's the matter."

He made her resume her seat by the table and pulled up one of the
horsehair chairs for himself. Nur-el-Din wiped her eyes on a tiny
lace handkerchief, but continued to sob and shudder at intervals.

"Marie, my maid," she said in French in a broken voice, "joined
me here to-day. She has told me of this dreadful murder!"

Desmond stiffened to attention. His mind swiftly reverted to the
last woman he had seen cry, to Barbara Mackwayte discovering the
loss of the package entrusted to her charge by the woman who sat
before him.

"What murder?" he asked, striving to banish any trace of interest
from his voice. He loathed the part he had to play. The dancer's
distress struck him as genuine.

"The murder of Monsieur Mackwayte," said Nur-el-Din, and her
tears broke forth anew.

"I have read of this in the newspapers," said Desmond. "I
remember you told me he was a friend of yours."

Briefly, with many sobs, the dancer told him of the silver box
which she had entrusted to Barbara Mackwayte's charge.

"And now," she sobbed, "it is lost and all my sacrifice, all my
precautions, have been in vain!"

"But how?" asked Desmond. "Why should you think this box should
have been taken? From what I remember reading of this case in the
English newspapers there was a burglary at the house, but the
thief has been arrested and the property restored. You have only
to ask this Miss--what was the name? ah! yes, Mackwayte for your
box and she will restore it!"

"No, no!" Nur-el-Din answered wearily, "you don't understand.
This was no burglary. The man who murdered Monsieur Arthur
murdered him to get my silver box."

"But," objected Desmond, "a silver box! What value has a trifling
object like that? My dear young lady, murder is not done for a
silver box!"

"No, no," Nur-el-Din repeated, "you don't understand! You