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that he hesitated. After all, even now he wasn’t
sure
that the girl with Wellingham had been Lola. And Lola had told him that “Madame” simply wouldn’t tolerate personal calls to members of her staff.
    All his old distrust of Wellingham had swept over him again like an avalanche. Of Lola he hardly dared to think, except that he flogged his memory of the girl in the Park in search of something about her to prove that she was
not
Lola.
    In any case, he was committed to go to Egypt. He couldn’t allow his personal doubts and frustrations to make him break faith with Sir Denis.
    An Oxford friend invited Brian to dine with him, which revived his drooping spirits. He managed that evening to forget his problems for an hour or two, had a few drinks, and felt better. He returned fairly early, remembering his four-o’clock appointment, and tried to hypnotize himself to sleep by conjuring up mental pictures of Cairo. But somehow Lola got into the pictures.

CHAPTER THREE

    C airo, from the air, while not so breath-taking as Damascus seen from above, proved exciting enough all the same to Brian. His urge to visit the Near East had been gratified. But every human blessing has a string to it. The string in this case was one he had knotted himself—Lola.
    He had left a letter at the reception desk for her, but not the letter he had been writing in the park. The second one had been even harder to write than the first; for although he had no positive proof that it was she he had seen with Wellingham, he remained obstinately convinced that it had been no one else.
    The terms of the
Times
advertisement, the fact that Lola had drawn his attention to it, heir words—“It read like a job created purposely for you”—added up to a dark, a horrible suspicion.
Had
it been created purposely for him? Was it a new variety of the old confidence trick? Until he actually met Nayland Smith he couldn’t be sure that it wasn’t.
    But its purpose? The money in his wallet was real enough. His fare had been paid to Cairo. Why? Could it be a case of abduction—a plot to bring about his disappearance? His father was a wealthy man… But this idea was too preposterous. He had to laugh it off.
    In fact, he was really trying all the time to convince himself that there was nothing wrong in the business. If Lola was really Peter Wellingham’s girl friend and had merely been fooling with him—well, she wasn’t the only pretty girl who enjoyed the attentions of more than one man.
    He would get over it. Anyway, he must wait and see…
    Accommodations had been reserved for him, and an Egyptian wearing hotel uniform was standing by when the plane taxied to a stop on the runway. This experienced courier brushed him through customs as if by magic, and in no time Brian found himself speeding along a lebbekh-lined avenue into the ancient city. The colorful crowds, the palm trees, the unfamiliar buildings, and the queer smell that belongs to Cairo, all came up to his expectations.
    His apartment had a balcony overlooking a busy street and the Esbekîyeh Gardens. The ruins of Shepheard’s Hotel, nearby, which the driver pointed out, struck a warning note, recalling his father’s advice, but it wasn’t sufficient to, depress him. While he was having a shower, a boy brought him a message. It was neatly typed on paper headed with an address in Sharîa Abdin and a phone number. It said:
    Dear Mr. Merrick:
    I shall give myself the pleasure of calling upon you in the morning. Probably you are tired after your long journey, but if you want to do any sightseeing, please don’t go out without a reliable dragoman. Sir Denis is expected to arrive at any moment.
    Yours, obediently,

A. J. A HMAD
    This suited Brian well enough. He was certainly tired, and. beyond a stroll in the surrounding streets he had no wish to go sightseeing. He planned to go to bed soon after dinner, and he did.
    He was at breakfast when Mr. Ahmad arrived.
    Mr. Ahmad, correctly dressed in