Almost immediately after Cara, Pagratide and Benton had seated themselves in the dining-room that evening, Arab servants secluded a corner table, close to their own, behind mushrabieh screens.  The party for whom this distinguished aloofness had been arranged made its entrance through an unseen door, but the voices indicated that several were at table there.  The waiter who served this table apart might have testified that one was an Englishman, wearing in addition to European evening dress the native tarboosh, or fez.  Also, that against his white shirt-front glittered the Star of Galavia.  The second diner wore one of the many elaborate uniforms that signify Ottoman officialdom.  His eyes were small and pig-like, and as he talked no feature or gesture at the table beyond escaped his appraising scrutiny.

There was one other behind the mushrabieh screens.  The niceties of his dress were Parisian, punctilious, perfect.  In his right lapel was the unostentatious button of the Legion d’Honneur.

The Englishman spoke.  “Much of your story, Monsieur Jusseret, is familiar to me.  It will, however, prove interesting in toto, I daresay, to our friend Abdul Said Bey, whom Allah preserve.”

There was a murmur of compliment from the Turk, adding his assurance of interest, and the Frenchman took up the thread of his narrative.

“We supposed that Karyl was dead—­the Throne of Galavia clear for Delgado.  Alas, we were in error!” The speaker shook his head in deep regret, as, turning to Martin, he added: 

“It was a pardonable mistake.  Let us hope the announcement was merely premature.”  He lifted his wine-glass with the air of one proposing a toast.  “It becomes our duty to make that statement true. Messieurs, our success!”

When the three glasses had been set down, the Englishman questioned:  “How did it occur?”

In the smooth manner of an after-dinner narrative, Jusseret explained the occurrences of the night when he had brought his plans to an almost successful termination.  He told his story with charm of recital, verve and humor, and gave it withal a touch of vivid realism, so that even his auditors, long since graduated from the stage where a tale of adventurous undertaking thrilled them, yet listened with profound interest.

With the salad Jusseret sighed regretfully.

“I rather plume myself on one quality of my work, Monsieur Martin.  I rarely overlook an integral detail.  I, however, find myself growing alarmingly faulty of judgment.”

“Indeed!” The Englishman was not greatly engrossed in the autobiographical phases of Jusseret’s diplomatic felonies.

“I regret to acknowledge it, but it is, alas, true.  I reflected that the world would resent harsh treatment of a man like Von Ritz.  He had committed no crime.  We could not charge treason against a government not yet born.  I opposed even exile.  He immediately rejoined his fleeing King—­and has since returned to Puntal, where one can only surmise what mischief he agitates.  It may be as well to consider his future.”