“Is not that boy a treasure?” whispered Bracy to Frere as they alighted. “How neatly he took the shine out of that thick-witted pyramid of fool’s flesh! I could not have done the thing better myself.” “I don’t pretend to any very unusual powers of foresight,” muttered Frere under his beard, “but I think I could point out that brat’s residuary legatee.” “Ah, indeed!” returned Bracy; “and who do you fix upon? the Archbishop of Canterbury?” “No, the hangman,” was the gruff reply. “Well, I’d myself venture to insure him against drowning for a very moderate premium,” rejoined his master, laughing; “but now I really must beg you to bear in mind that you are utterly ignorant of the English language.” “Inshallah! I’d forgotten my illustrious descent most completely,” answered Frere, “but I’ll be careful; so, for the next three hours, ‘my native’ tongue, ‘good-night.’” While this conversation had been carried on in an undertone, the party had been ushered upstairs amidst the wondering gaze of servants innumerable, of all sorts and sizes, from the little foot-page staggering under a galaxy of buttons to the mighty butler barely able to walk beneath the weight of his own dignity. “What name shall I say, gentlemen?” asked the last-named official in his most insinuating tone; for a Persian prince was a rarity sufficient to impress even his imperturbable spirit with a sense of respect. “His Highness Prince Mustapha Ali Khan and suite,” returned Bracy authoritatively. Immediately the door of a well-lighted saloon was flung back on its hinges, and in a stentorian voice the major domo announced, “His Highness Prince Mystify-all-I-can and see-it.” “By Jove! he’s hit it,” whispered Bracy to Lewis, as, following Frere, they entered the room. “He won’t beat that if he tries till he’s black in the face.” As he finished speaking, the guests, who had crowded as near the door as good breeding would allow to witness the Prince’s _entrée_, drew back as a rustling of silks and satins announced the approach of their hostess.