CHAPTER IX
THE PALACE OP DUST
Shortly after midnight a late moon rose behind the slim, white minarets of the Mehemet Ali Mosque, to sail peacefully over the quiet city, flooding Ismailieh's broad avenues and the tortuous byways of the native quarters with a silvery splendor that seemed well-nigh unearthly.
It grew more cool and yet more quiet. O'Rourke—stubbornly remaining in his chair on the terrace the while he wondered just precisely how many kinds of an ass he was making of himself—O'Rourke felt the chill of the desert breeze penetrating his thin evening clothes, and sent a servant for his inverness.
Danny brought it.
"Beggin' yer honor's pardon, sor," he said, "but yer honor will be comin' in now, will ye not?"
O'Rourke, though aware that the man was in the right, snapped at him angrily.
"Why?"
"Sure, now, sor, 'tis late, and 'tis mesilf that's bought seats on the first train for Port Said in the marnin', sor. We'll be startih' early, and 'tis yersilf that needs rest."
"Go to the divvle, Danny," said O'Rourke pleasantly, "if so be it ye do not want me to kick ye there. I may change me mind before the morning. Get out now!"
"Aw, wirra!" lamented Danny; but he wisely obeyed.
An hour dragged by with leaden feet; O'Rourke, shivering,
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