“Yes,” murmured the girl, bending to pour out tea--“It’s a queer thing to admit, but I’m fascinated by lightning. Do you think--it was seeing me there that--caused you to crash?” “No,” Barry replied promptly. He was watching the slim hands, the turn of her wrists, the line, seen below a smart little hat, of her creamy neck. “You were dressed very oddly.” She stooped forward over the sugar bowl. “Yes; I was--trying on a fancy costume.” She glanced up quickly. “Two lumps?” “One, please.” He watched her dazedly. “It’s amazing to think that my father knew your mother. I have heard him speak of her singing Thaïs.” “The critics said she did not merely _sing_ Thaïs, she _was_ Thaïs.” “Is she----?” “She died when I was a baby,” the girl replied simply. “Here, in Paris.” “You were born in Paris?” “Yes.” “How did you come to live in America?” “My foster-father is an American. He was once engaged to marry my mother, you see. But she changed her mind--unfortunately.” As she spoke the final word, an expression of such implacable hatred crept over her beautiful face that Barry flinched. It was so that he remembered her on that night in the _wâdi!_ “It’s dreadful to say and dreadful to hear,” she went on; “but my father ruined my mother, in every sense of the word. She would have died in a pauper’s hospital but for Paul Ahmes.” “Who is Paul Ahmes?” Barry asked, a sort of new awe in his voice. Marguerite Devina glanced up at him, and her eyes were very bright. “He is the greatest-hearted soul in the world,” she answered in a queer tone of challenge. “My mother brought him nothing but sorrow. Yet he spent all he had to try to make her happy--at the end. And he took the place of my father--afterward.” “And is he, also, an operatic artist?” She gave a little choking laugh. “No,” she replied. “He is, or used to be, a vaudeville artist! He retired years ago. He was known throughout Europe as ‘The Great Ahmes.’ He was an illusionist. Not so famous as Houdini, but equally clever in his own way.” Watching her closely and trying to steady his voice: “Ahmes is surely an Egyptian name?” said Barry. “Yes,” she replied composedly. “He used to work as an Egyptian. There is Arab blood on his father’s side. He was always billed as ‘The Wizard of the Sphinx.’” With a curious eagerness she poured out these confidences. Obviously she wanted to do so. She watched Barry with those long, lovely eyes, as if inviting further and closer cross-examination; as if challenging him to put her upon trial. “Is--your guardian--in Paris?” “I expect him to-day.” “Did you expect _me?_” The abruptness of the thrust startled her, Barry determined. But if it were so her defence remained impregnable. “No,” she replied, laughing; “how could I?”