“And now,” callously supplemented the Englishman, “our new King feels an uncertainty of tenure so long as the old King lives, and I am rushed after this refugee Monarch with brief instructions to dispose of him.”

There was a certain eloquence in the shrug of Jusseret’s shoulders. “Messieurs, we have wrecked Karyl’s dynasty, but it still devolves upon us in workmanlike fashion to clear away the debris.”

Martin leaned forward and put his query like an attorney cross-examining a witness.

“Where was this Queen when the King was taken?”

“That,” replied Jusseret, “is a question to be put to Von Ritz or Karyl.  It would appear that Von Ritz suspected the end and, wise as he is in the cards of diplomacy, resolved that should his King be taken, he would still hold his Queen in reserve.  That Kingdom does not hold to the Salic Law—­a Queen may reign!  And so you see, my colleagues,” he summarized, “we, representing the plans of Europe, find ourselves confronted with questions unanswered, and with matters yet to do.”

Martin’s voice was matter-of-fact.  “After all,” he observed, “what are the odds, where the King was or where the Queen was at a given time in the past, so long as we jolly well know where they are to-night?” Turning to the Sultan’s officer, he spoke rapidly.  “You understand what is expected?” He pointed one hand to the party from the yacht.  “The man nearest us is the King who failed to remain dead.  That failure is curable if you play your game.”  He paused.  “The lady,” he added, “has the misfortune to have been the Queen of Galavia.  You understand, my brother?”

The Turk rose, pushing back his chair.

“Your words are illuminating.”  He spoke with a profound bow.  “In serving you, I shall bring honor to my children, and my children’s children.”  With the Turkish gesture of farewell, his fingers touching heart, lips and forehead, he betook himself backward to the door.

Two hours later, alighting from a rickety victoria by the landing-stage, Cara made her way between the two men, toward the waiting launch from the Isis.  Filthy looking Arabs, to the number of a dozen, rose out of the shadows and crowded about the trio, pleading piteously for backshish in the name of Allah.  The party found itself forced back towards the carriage, and Benton fingered the grip of the revolver in his pocket as the other hand held the girl’s arm.  At the same moment there was a sudden clamor of shouting and the patter of running feet.  Then the throng of beggars dropped back under the pelting blows from heavy naboots in the hands of kavasses.

An instant later a stout Turk in official uniform broke through the confusion, shouting imprecations.

“Back, you children of swine!” he declaimed.  “Back to your mires, you pigs!  Do you dare to affront the great Pashas?” Then, turning obsequiously, he bowed with profound apology.  “It is a bitter sorrow that you should be annoyed,” he assured them, “but it is over.”