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She wandered away from him into the dressing room. She wanted something beautiful. What was the finest dress that miserable woman had possessed? Ah, this one of rose-colored silk with fragile cutwork trimming. She took it up, slipped her arms into it and quickly snapped the little hooks up the front. It flattered her breasts beautifully; and the skirt was full and beautiful, though she no longer had to hide her feet.

Once again she put on the sandals.

"Where are you going?"

"Out in the city. This is the city of Cairo. Why should I not go out into it?"

"I must talk to you...."

"Must you?" She gathered up her canvas bag. In the corner of her eye she could see a great sliver of broken glass on the marble dressing table top. A shard from the bottle she'd smashed.

She moved lazily towards it. Her hand played with the pearls there. She should take these too. Of course he followed her.

"Cleopatra, look at me," he said.

She turned abruptly and kissed him. Could he be so easily fooled? Yes, his lips told her that, oh, so delicious. How splendidly he suffered! Groping blindly at her side, she found that shard and, lifting it, gashed his throat.

She stepped backwards. He stood staring at her. The blood poured down his white robe. But he wasn't afraid. He did not move to stop the bleeding. His face showed only sadness, not fear.

"I cannot die either," he whispered softly.

"Ah!" She smiled. "Did someone wake you from the grave?"

Again she rushed at him, kicking at him, clawing at his eyes.

"Stop, I beg you."

She raised her knee, jamming him hard between his legs. That pain he felt, oh

, yes. He doubled over with it, and she kicked him hard in the side of the head.

Through the courtyard she raced, gripping the canvas bag with her left hand, as with her right she reached for the top of the wall. In a second she was over it and racing through the narrow unlighted street.

Within minutes she reached the motor car. Instantly she turned on the engine, gave it fuel with a stab of the pedal and roared out of the small alleyway and onto the main road.

Ah, the wind in her face again; the freedom; and the power of this great iron beast at her command.

"Take me to the bright lights of British Cairo," she said, "dear sweet little beast. Yes!"

HE FRONT lounge at Shepheard's. Good gin from the bar, with plenty of ice and just a little lemon. He was grateful that they had allowed him that. What a drunkard he had become. A lovely realization came over him. When he got back to England, he was going to drink himself to death.

But would they never stop? Surely they had realized he would tell them nothing. They looked like mannequins to him, their mouths jerking as if worked by wires. Every gesture seemed artificial. Even the handsome little boy who came in and out with the ice and the gin appeared to be acting. All of it false. Grotesque the figures moving past in the lobby; and the music drifting from the bars and the ballroom, why, it sounded like what they might be playing tonight in hell.

Sometimes the words they said made no sense. He knew the definition of each word, but what was the meaning? Dead men with their necks broken. Had she done it in the short time that he had absented himself?

"I'm tired, gentlemen," he said finally. "The heat here does not agree with me. I took a bad fall today. I need my rest now. You must allow me to go to my room."

The two men looked at each other. Mock frustration. Nothing was real here. What was real? Cleopatra's hands closing on his throat; the white-draped figure behind her, catching hold of her?

"Lord Rutherford, we are now dealing with several murders! Clearly, the stabbing in London was only the beginning. Now we must ask for your full cooperation. These two young men murdered this afternoon...."

"I have told you. I know nothing about it! What is it you want from me, young man, that I spin fancies for you? This is absurd."

"Henry Stratford. Do you know where we can find him? He was here at Shepheard's to see you two days ago."

"Henry Stratford frequents the worst parts of Cairo. He walks dark streets alone at night. I don't know where he is, God help him. Now, I really must go."

He rose from his chair. Where was that damned walking stick now?