“Because—well, you see, his father was the Earl of Glucose but not a sticker for the proprieties. I might even say he drank freely. That was not a habit clearly to take into the Sahara. And when thus bedizened he sometimes failed in courtesy. Especially toward his wife. She was Spanish but unquestionably all her life long had walked normally. She was a bit of a Moor too. But new to sand-dunes. One evening the Earl of Glucose feeling like kicking about a bit selected his wife. He busied himself thus for some time.
“Then it would seem he kicked her so far that he couldn’t find her nor could she find herself and thus it was she happened upon the suburban oasis of Sheik Ben Butler, senior.
“A boy was born. Kicking just like his father.
“The Sheik did not send her to his harem but kept the Spanish lady with him hanging right around his neck until she died in his arms. Not promptly but nearly so.
“The truth now,” said the distinguished novelist, “is on the point of bursting forth!
“Amut is that woman’s son!”
“Mr. Hitchings!”
“I don’t wonder that you are surprised. Amut was too when he heard it. We all were! You see my father was in America at the time and the Sheik was in China and so they met. By the same chain of circumstances, Amut and I were both educated in Siberia. You understand? But even if you don’t, I don’t either. Still it is explanatory, is it not?”
“Mr. Hitchings!”
“Beg pardon.”