But with her newly found
insight Doctor Mary knew better. What Mr. Saffron declaimed in that
vibrating, metallic voice, were not poems, but--speeches!
And "Morocco" itself! To anybody who remembered history for a few years
back, even with the general memory of the man in the street, to anybody
who had read the controversies about the war, Morocco brought not puzzle,
but enlightenment. For had not Morocco been really the starting point of
the Years of Crisis--those years intermittent in excitement, but constant
in anxiety? Beaumaroy was to start tomorrow for Morocco--on the strength
of the hieroglyphics! Perhaps he was to go on from Morocco to Libya;
perhaps he was to raise the Senussi (Mary had followed the history of the
war), to make his appearance at Cairo, Jerusalem, Bagdad! He was to be a
forerunner, was Mr. Beaumaroy. Mr. Saffron, his august master, would
follow in due course! With a sardonic smile she wondered how the
ingenious man would get out of starting for Morocco; perhaps he would not
succeed in obtaining a passport, or, that excuse failing, in eluding the
vigilance of the British authorities.
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