No time had been lost, for it was less than
twenty-four hours since she had arrived in Cairo, and very soon she would
know the worst or the best. She had put her past away for the moment, and
the Duchess of Snowdon had found at Marseilles a silent, determined, yet
gentle-tongued woman, who refused to look back, or to discuss anything
vital to herself and Eglington, until what she had come to Egypt to do
was accomplished. Nor would she speak of the future, until the present
had been fully declared and she knew the fate of David Claridge. In Cairo
there were only varying rumours: that he was still holding out; that he
was lost; that he had broken through; that he was a prisoner--all without
foundation upon which she could rely.
As she neared the Palace entrance, a female fortune-teller ran forward,
thrusting towards her a gazelle's skin, filled with the instruments of
her mystic craft, and crying out: "I divine-I reveal! What is present I
manifest! What is absent I declare! What is future I show! Beautiful one,
hear me. It is all written.
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