“Feel!” said Neil Harley, quietly. “I feel that little Miss Stuart was right in what she said to me.”
“And what was that?”
“That this is a contest between the wits of the Eastern and the European; that we are being deceived; and that Sultan Murad is playing a part.”
“What, after the miserable relics we have just seen?”
“After the miserable relics we have just seen. He has slaves who would die in his service, and who would consider it a merit to deceive the heathen English.”
“Then he is playing his part marvellously well,” said the doctor.
“Magnificently; and if Miss Stuart is right, as I believe she is, for the simple reason that her ideas accord with mine, he is a born actor. That show of grief, and that seizure of the pocket-handkerchief were admirably done.”
“If you believe all this, then,” said the doctor, “why not boldly charge him with the crime!”
“To create a little war, with no better reason than my suspicions? A charge made in face of the most earnest work—while he is striving might and main to serve us.”
“Apparently,” said the doctor.