It Happened in Egypt

								

had heard, why should he, who prided himself on "not bothering" with
women, trouble to provide a dragoman at Alexandria?
I hurried to the dining car, and found Monny with her satellites seated
at a table, three of them looking as calmly innocent as if they had not
upset my well-laid scheme for their comfort. Biddy alone had a guilty
air, because, perhaps, I was more important in her eyes than in the
eyes of the others. "Oh, dear Duffer," she began to wheedle me: "We
hope you don't mind our coming here? We thought it a good idea, for
we're starving, although we're perfectly happy because we're in Egypt,
and because it's such a quaint train, so different and Eastern. The
dragoman who----"
"I think he came from your friend Anthony with an 'H,'" Cleopatra broke
in. "He seemed providential. And he speaks English. The only objection
is, he's not as good-looking as Monny and I wanted our dragoman to be.
We did hope to get one who would be becoming to us, you see, and give
the right sort of Eastern background. But I suppose one can't have
everything! And it was I who said your friend Anthony's messenger
must be engaged even if his face is--is--rather like an accident!"
"It's like a catastrophe," remarked Monny, looking as if she blamed me.
"Where is it?" I wanted to know.
"It's waiting in a vestibule outside where the cook's cooking," Biddy
explained ungrammatically. "I told it you'd want to see it. And it's
got a letter for you from some one." "Did the fellow say the letter was
from Fenton?" I inquired.
"No. He only said, from a friend who'd expected to meet you; and Mrs.
East was sure it must be from the one you were talking about."
Wasting no more words, I marched off to the fountainhead for
information. Near the open door of the infinitesimal kitchen stood a
fat little dark man with a broken nose, and one white eye. The other
eye, as if to make up, was singularly, repellently intelligent. It
fixed itself upon me, as I approached, with eager questioning which
melted into ingratiating politeness. Instinct warned the fellow that I
was the person he awaited. At the same moment, instinct was busily
whispering to me that there was something fishy about him, despite the
alleged letter. He did not look the type of man Fenton would recommend.
And though his face was of an unwholesome olive tint, and he wore a
tarbush, and a galabeah as long as a dressing-gown, under his short
European coat, I was sure he was not of Arab or Egyptian blood.
"Milord Borrow?" he began, displaying large white teeth, of which he
was evidently proud.
I assented.
"My name is Bedr el Gem�ly," he introduced himself. "I have a letter
for milord."
"Who gave it to you?" I challenged him.
The ingratiating smile seemed to flicker like a candle flame in a
sudden puff of wind. "A friend of my, a dragoman. He could not come to
bring it. So he give it to me. The gentleman's name was Fenton. My