"No," he said quietly, flicking the ash from his cigarette. "Go on."
"So I went husband-hunting. Not much need, you may say, for a girl on the stage to do that. Of course I had plenty of men running after me—some beasts, some good sorts. They didn't do. I wanted something worth loving; a man who was strong, but human; a man with a sense of humor and not too grown-up for romance—a kind of Admirable Crichton, in fact. I didn't find him—at all events, not at first.
"This Turkish tale I made up for two reasons,—one, the purely irresponsible childish enjoyment of a fairy tale—a lark, if you like! Two, for a test. If my projected benedict could swallow that—believe it, if possible, but at all events not refuse it because it looked so silly—well, he would do on the romantic side. But he had to be a man and a strong man, too; hence the invention of Lukos for a further test."
"A pretty hard one," he interposed.
"Pretty hard," she agreed, "but I meant to have the best. I tried the tale on two or three men who seemed good sorts, during a period of three months or so. They all failed for ... one reason or another. Then, by a lucky chance, you came and succeeded. That's all."
"And Mizzi?"
"My faithful helper and plagiarist. She got bitten with the romantic notion too, and set her lover a somewhat similar task. She invented the burglary."
"Tony Wild?"
"Luck," she confessed. "I worked the broad outlines of the scheme, but added to it as circumstances helped. The ambassador was an old friend, and I used his presence here to give verisimilitude. He didn't know, of course, and the day he caught you here I was afraid my schemes would be blurted out by his calling me 'Miss Blair.' Luck helped me there."
"Hedderwick?"