“I feel as though some sort of crisis were approaching, Claude. Now do you suppose she suspects what manner of face that veil hides?” he asks his friend. “Oh, as to that, Dorothy has thrown back the veil impatiently a dozen times in order to look at some curio, but, being bothered with the bold glances her beauty draws from some of the visitors here, lets it drop again. If this be Marda, as you seem to imagine, depend on it, she has seen the girl’s face.” “What will she do?” “Ah! there I must confess my weakness. We might consult the black Nubian who holds forth in that sacred chamber of the mosque.” “To the deuce with him and his folly. I imagine we can get a better answer by watching these people, though, in one way, it goes against my grain to play the detective.” “Bah! you’re too conscientious. Remember, we are not mere curiosity mongers, nor reporters seeking a sensation, but sworn protectors to this lovely Hebe, who lacks a brother’s care. Under such circumstances, Aleck, anything is fair in love or war.” “Be it so. I must accept your version, and stifle my dislike to the task by remembering the demands of duty.” “Bravo! you’ll get there yet. They are quitting the bazaar, and she is close behind. Now watch me play a little side game.” In an instant Wycherley has managed to pass around a table and meet the cloaked and veiled figure at the doorway. The execution of the maneuver is first-class. A bent pin or some such object in the lapel of his coat catches the floating veil, and for the second time inside an hour the Cairo Street fortune teller finds herself shorn of the gauzy covering that has been used to screen her features. “I really beg pardon! too awkward of me, to be sure. You--why, can it be Miss Dorothy Cereal?” says the vagabond, with a look of well-simulated surprise. The other hastily replaces the veil, but not before he notices the alarm and perturbation his pretended recognition has caused. “No, no,” she mutters wildly; “it is one mistake, sir. I assure you.” Then she darts out of the bazaar door like a frightened deer. Wycherley laughs softly to himself at his success. “What do you think, now?” he asks of Aleck, who joins him outside. “There can be no mistake about her identity. We have yet to learn whether this can be the Marda of the past, the mother whom Dorothy has been taught to believe dead.” “I believe I have settled even that,” declares the actor. “Come, let us continue to keep them in sight while we talk.” “You said something to her as you bowed with the grace of a Chesterfield. I was not near enough to hear what it was.” “But you noticed her confusion?” “It was very apparent.” “I pretended to believe it was Miss Cereal, and addressed her by that name.” “Jove! and she----”