"Maymun the Persian founded the order. A free-thinker, heretic, and magician, he fled from the wrath of the Khalif Mansur, with his son Abdallah, to whom he imparted all his vast knowledge of medicine, conjuring, and occultism. And Abdallah built up on this start by promising the return of the vanished Seventh Imam, who had never died, but who was waiting for the day to return and rule all Islam. They still wait for the return of Ismail, the Seventh Imam. And in the meanwhile, behold the deviltry with which they amuse themselves, bewitching Antoinette, slaying La Dorada--_le bon Dieu_ can only say what will come next." They drew up at d'Artois' house as he concluded his refreshing of Farrell's memory on the origin of the menace that had taken root in Bayonne. "How about my watching the plaza?" wondered Farrell as Raoul admitted them. "You have watched enough," declared d'Artois. "In fact, you have made yourself so painfully conspicuous that from now on I will have to watch you more closely than Mademoiselle Antoinette, or you will be found full of daggers yourself." "Nuts, Pierre!" protested Farrell. "I've been away from home before, and I'm used to being hunted." "Nevertheless, be on your guard," cautioned the old man. _4. Shirkuh Makes Magic_ That evening, after dinner, d'Artois' man, Raoul, entered the study with a large envelope that had just been delivered by a messenger. D'Artois glanced at the large waxen seal that secured the flap. "The crest of _Monsieur le Marquis_," he observed. Then, with a wink and a grin at Farrell, he continued, "Like Satan in the first lines of the Book of Job, I wandered up and down the world, and in it, particularly at Biarritz, and somewhat about the estate of our good Marquis. But need I assure you that if my presence was noted, it was also amply accounted for? _Mais oui_, of a verity!" He slit the envelope and withdrew an engraved invitation. "Hmmm ... _Monsieur le Marquis_ requests the honor of my presence at a _soirée_ at his château. The Thaumaturgical Order of Thoth is meeting in open conclave." "Wait a minute," interrupted Farrell. "There's something fishy about this. La Dorada, his sweetheart, is murdered around noon. And now he sends you an invitation to--what was it?--some kind of juggler's convention. Anyway, it's utterly out of keeping. Not only inhumanly callous, but damned poor form; no matter what his private morals may be, a man of his station would have better manners!" "Granted," acquiesced d'Artois. "But consider: this thaumaturgical society may be depending upon the meeting-place designated, and can not postpone it for the sake of one man's grief. That there is such an order has been for some time an open secret. Then, he himself may be absent from the conclave, even though it assembled in his name. Or again," continued d'Artois, "it is even possible that Monsieur the Marquis does not know of La Dorada's death."