ion the man Miguel, although I strongly suspected him of being
a member of "The Scorpion's" organization. Any patron of the
establishment enjoyed the privilege of receiving private telephone
calls at the cafe on payment of a small fee.

A man of less experience in obscure criminology might now have assumed
that he had been misled by a series of striking coincidences. Remember,
there was not a shadow of doubt in the minds of the medical experts
that the Grand Duke had died from syncope. His own professional
advisor had sent written testimony to show that there was hereditary
heart trouble, although not of a character calculated to lead to a
fatal termination except under extraordinary circumstances. His own
Government, which had every reason to suspect that the Grand Duke's
assassination might be attempted, was satisfied. _Eh bien!_ I was not.

I cross-examined the manager of the Theatre Coquerico. He admitted that
Mlle. Zara el-Khala had been a mystery throughout her engagement.
Neither he nor anyone else connected with the house had ever entered
her dressing-room or held any conversation with her, whatever, except
the stage-manager and the musical director. These had spoken to her
about her music and about lighting and other stage effects. She spoke
perfect French.

Such a state of affairs was almost incredible, but was explained by
the fact that the dancer, at a most modest salary, had doubled the
takings of the theatre in a few days and had attracted capacity
business throughout the remainder of her engagement. She had written
from Marseilles, enclosing press notices and other usual matter and
had been booked direct for one week. She had remained for two months,
and might have remained for ever, the poor manager assured me, at five
times the salary!

A curious fact now came to light. In all her photographs Zara
el-Khala appeared veiled, in the Eastern manner; that is to say, she
wore a white silk _yashmak_ which concealed all her face except her
magnificent eyes! On the stage the veil was discarded; in the
photographs it was always present.

And the famous picture which she had sent to the Grand Duke? He had
destroyed it, in a fit of passion, on returning from the Bois de
Boulogne after his encounter with Chunda Lal!

It is Fate after all--Kismet--and not the wit of man which leads to
the apprehension of really great criminals--a tireless Fate which
dogs their footsteps, a remorseless Fate from which they fly