have either retired from the profession or gone to some other part
of the world. The man was not only a very clever magician, but a master
of mimicry. I always believed, however, that in spite of his name he was
of English birth. The woman's face I never saw, of course, as she was
always veiled to the eyes after the manner of Turkish ladies. But
although a good many persons suspected that her birthplace was no nearer
Bagdad than Peckham, I somehow felt that she was, after all, a genuine,
native-born Turk."

"You are quite right in both suspicions, Mr. Cleek," put in the Major
agitatedly. "The man _was_ an Englishman; the lady _is_ a Turk."

"May I ask, Major, why you speak of the lady in the present tense and
of the man in the past? Is he dead?"

"I hope so," responded the Major fervently. "God knows I do, Mr. Cleek.
My every hope in life depends upon that."

"May I ask why?"

"I am desirous of marrying his widow!"

"My dear Major, you cannot possibly be serious! A woman of that class?"

"Pardon me, sir, but you have, for all your cleverness, fallen a victim
to the prevailing error. The lady is in every way my social equal--in
her own country my superior. She _is_ a caliph's daughter. The title
which the playgoing public imagined was of the usual bombastic,
just-on-the-programme sort, is hers by right. Her late father, Caliph Al
Hamid Sulaiman, was one of the richest and most powerful Mohammedans in
existence. He died five months ago, leaving an immense fortune to be
conveyed to England to his exiled but forgiven child."

"Ah, I see. Then, naturally, of course--"

"The suggestion is unworthy of you, Sir Henry, and anything but
complimentary to me. The inheritance of this money has had nothing
whatever to do with my feelings for the lady. That began two years ago,
when, by accident, I was permitted to look upon her face for the first,
last, and only time. I should still wish to marry her if she were an
absolute pauper. I know what you are saying to yourself, sir: 'There is
no fool like an old fool.' Well, perhaps there isn't. But--" he turned
to Cleek--"I may as well begin at the beginning and confess that even if
I did not desire to marry the lady I should still have a deep interest
in her husband's death, Mr. Cleek. He is--or was, if dead--the only son
of my cousin, the Earl of Wynraven, who is now over ninety years of age.
I am in the direct line, and if this Lord Norman Ulchester, whom you and
the public k