“It seems to me that we are all more or less indebted to one another,” he declared.  “For instance, I might never have met you, Margaret, if I had not run into your cousin that eventful night at Princes; and Gray would not have been gazing abstractedly out of the doorway if Mrs. Irvin had joined him for dinner as arranged.  One can trace almost every episode in life right back, and ultimately come—­”

“To Kismet!” cried his wife, laughing merrily.  “So before we begin dinner tonight—­which is a night of reunion—­I am going to propose a toast to Kismet!”

“Good!” said Seton, “we shall all drink it gladly.  Eh, Irvin?”

“Gladly, indeed,” agreed Monte Irvin.  “You know, Seton,” he continued, “we have been wandering, Rita and I; and ever since your wife handed her patient over to me as cured we have covered some territory.  I don’t know if you or Chief Inspector Kerry has been responsible, but the press accounts of the Kazmah affair have been scanty to baldness.  One stray bit of news reached us—­in Colorado, I think.”

“What was that, Mr. Irvin?” asked Margaret, leaning towards the speaker.

“It was about Mollie Gretna.  Someone wrote and told me that she had eloped with a billiard marker—­a married man with five children!”

Seton laughed heartily, and so did Margaret and Rita.

“Right!” cried Seton.  “She did.  When last heard of she was acting as barmaid in a Portsmouth tavern!”

But Monte Irvin did not laugh.

“Poor, foolish girl!” he said gravely.  “Her life might have been so different—­so useful and happy.”

“I agree,” replied Seton, “if she had had a husband like Kerry.”

“Oh, please don’t!” said Margaret.  “I almost fell in love with Chief Inspector Kerry myself.”

“A grand fellow!” declared her husband warmly.  “The Kazmah inquiry was the triumph of his career.”

Monte Irvin turned to him.

“You did your bit, Seton,” he said quietly.  “The last words Inspector Kerry spoke to me before I left England were in the nature of a splendid tribute to yourself, but I will spare your blushes.”

“Kerry is as white as they’re made,” replied Seton, “but we should never have known for certain who killed Sir Lucien if he had not risked his life in that filthy cellar as he did.”

Rita Irvin shuddered slightly and drew her furs more closely about her shoulders.

“Shall we change the conversation, dear?” whispered Margaret.

“No, please,” said Rita.  “You cannot imagine how curious I am to learn the true details—­for, as Monte says, we have been out of touch with things, and although we were so intimately concerned, neither of us really knows the inner history of the affair to this day.  Of course, we know that Kazmah was a dummy figure, posed in the big ebony chair.  He never moved, except to raise his hand, and this was done by someone seated in the inner room behind the figure.  But who was seated there?”