“The riddle?  Why, it was this:  ’What kind of a hen lays the longest?  Think of that!  What kind of a hen lays the longest?  Ain’t it like a Dutchman to risk a man’s happiness on a fool proposition like that?  Now, what’s the use?  What I don’t know about hens would fill several incubators.  You say you’re giving imitations of the old Arab guy that gave away—­libraries in Bagdad.  Well, now, can you whistle up a fairy that’ll solve this hen query, or not?”

When the young man ceased the Margrave arose and paced to and fro by the park bench for several minutes.  Finally he sat again, and said, in grave and impressive tones: 

“I must confess, sir, that during the eight years that I have spent in search of adventure and in relieving distress I have never encountered a more interesting or a more perplexing case.  I fear that I have overlooked hens in my researches and observations.  As to their habits, their times and manner of laying, their many varieties and cross-breedings, their span of life, their—­”

“Oh, don’t make an Ibsen drama of it!” interrupted the young man, flippantly.  “Riddles—­especially old Hildebrant’s riddles—­don’t have to be worked out seriously.  They are light themes such as Sim Ford and Harry Thurston Peck like to handle.  But, somehow, I can’t strike just the answer.  Bill Watson may, and he may not.  To-morrow will tell.  Well, Your Majesty, I’m glad anyhow that you butted in and whiled the time away.  I guess Mr. Al Rashid himself would have bounced back if one of his constituents had conducted him up against this riddle.  I’ll say good night.  Peace fo’ yours, and what-you-may-call-its of Allah.”

The Margrave, still with a gloomy air, held out his hand.

“I cannot express my regret,” he said, sadly.  “Never before have I found myself unable to assist in some way.  ’What kind of a hen lays the longest?  It is a baffling problem.  There is a hen, I believe, called the Plymouth Rock that—­”

“Cut it out,” said the young man.  “The Caliph trade is a mighty serious one.  I don’t suppose you’d even see anything funny in a preacher’s defense of John D. Rockefeller.  Well, good night, Your Nibs.”

From habit the Margrave began to fumble in his pockets.  He drew forth a card and handed it to the young man.

“Do me the favor to accept this, anyhow,” he said.  “The time may come when it might be of use to you.”

“Thanks!” said the young man, pocketing it carelessly.  “My name is Simmons.”

* * * * * *

Shame to him who would hint that the reader’s interest shall altogether pursue the Margrave August Michael von Paulsen Quigg.  I am indeed astray if my hand fail in keeping the way where my peruser’s heart would follow.  Then let us, on the morrow, peep quickly in at the door of Hildebrant, harness maker.

Hildebrant’s 200 pounds reposed on a bench, silver-buckling a raw leather martingale.