“I am he,” he said evenly.

“Then,” Laodice said, “I am she whom thou hast expected.”

Philadelphus smiled and dropped his head as if in thought.

“One always expects the pleasurable,” he essayed, “but at times one does not recognize it when it comes.  Who art thou, lady?”

“Pestilence, war and the evil devices of men have desolated me,” she said coldly.  “I have only a name.  I am Laodice.”

“Laodice!” he repeated amiably.  “A familiar name; eh, Amaryllis?”

Laodice waited.  Philadelphus looked again at her and appeared to wait.

“I am Laodice,” the girl repeated, a little disconcerted, “thy wife.”

“So!” Philadelphus exclaimed.

There was such well-assumed astonishment in the exclamation that she raised her eyes quickly to his face.  There was another expression there; one wholly incredulous.

“Now did I in the profligacy of mine extreme youth marry two Laodices?” he said.  “For another Laodice, wife to me, joined me some days since.”

Laodice gazed at him without comprehending.

“I say,” he repeated, “that my wife Laodice joined me some time ago.”

“Why, I—­I am Laodice, daughter to Costobarus, and thy wife!” she exclaimed, while her eyes fixed upon him the full force of her astonishment.

He turned to Amaryllis.

“What labyrinth is this, O my friend,” he asked, “in which thou hast set my feet?”

“I do not know,” Amaryllis laughed suddenly.  “Call the princess.”

Philadelphus summoned a servant and instructed her to bring his wife.  For a short space the three did not speak, though Laodice’s lips parted and she stroked her forehead in a bewildered way.

Then Salome, late actress in the theaters at Ephesus, came into the hall.  Amaryllis bowed to her and the impostor gave her a chair.  He turned to Laodice and with the faintest shadow of a grimace motioned toward the new-comer.

“This,” he said, “is Laodice, daughter of Costobarus.”

Laodice blazed at the insolent beauty who stared at her with curious eyes.

“That!” she cried.  “The daughter of Costobarus!”

The fine brown eyes of the woman smoldered a little, but she continued to gaze without the least discomposure.

“Who is this, sir?” she asked of Philadelphus.

“That,” said Philadelphus evenly, to the actress, “is Laodice, daughter of Costobarus.”

“I do not understand,” the actress said disgustedly.  “You are clumsy, Philadelphus, when you are playful.  If this is all, I shall return to my chamber.”

She rose, but Laodice sprang into her path.

“Hold!” she cried.  “Philadelphus, hast thou accepted this woman without proofs?”

Philadelphus smiled and shook his head.

“And by the by,” he asked, “what proof have you?”

Up to that moment Laodice had burned with confident rage, feeling that, by force of the justice of her cause, she might overthrow this preposterous villainy, but at Philadelphus’ question she suddenly chilled and blanched and shrank back.  A new and supreme disadvantage of her loss presented itself to her at last.  She could not prove her identity!