And with this non-committal response he dismissed the subject airily, waved the major to a seat, and the business of the interview began.
"My dear Cleek," Narkom began, opening fire without further parley, "the major has come to ask your aid in a case of singular and mystifying interest. You may or may not have heard of a music-hall artiste—a sort of conjuror and impersonator—called 'Zyco the Magician,' who was assisted in his illusions by a veiled but reputedly beautiful Turkish lady who was billed on the programmes and posters as 'Zuilika, the Caliph's Daughter.'"
"I remember the pair very well indeed. They toured the music-halls for years, and I saw their performance frequently. They were the first, I believe, to produce that afterward universal trick known as 'The Vanishing Lady.' As I have not heard anything of them nor seen their names billed for the past couple of years, I fancy they have either retired from the profession or gone to some other part of the world. The man was not only a very clever magician, but a master of mimicry. I always believed, however, that in spite of his name he was of English birth. The woman's face I never saw, of course, as she was always veiled to the eyes after the manner of Turkish ladies. But although a good many persons suspected that her birthplace was no nearer Bagdad than Peckham, I somehow felt that she was, after all, a genuine, native-born Turk."
"You are quite right in both suspicions, Mr. Cleek," put in the major agitatedly. "The man was an Englishman; the lady is a Turk."
"May I ask, Major, why you speak of the lady in the present tense and of the man in the past? Is he dead?"
"I hope so," responded the major fervently. "God knows I do, Mr. Cleek. My very hope in life depends upon that."
"May I ask why?"
"I am desirous of marrying his widow!"
"My dear Major, you cannot possibly be serious! A woman of that class?"