Gervase stared at him, still dazzled and confused.

"Whom did you say? ... the Princess Ziska? ... No, I don't know her ... Yet, stay! Yes, I think I have seen her ... somewhere,--in Paris, possibly. Will you introduce me?"

"I leave that duty to Mr. Denzil Murray," said the Doctor, folding his arms neatly behind his back ... "He knows her better than I do."

And smiling his little grim, cynical smile, he settled his academic cap more firmly on his head and strolled off towards the ballroom. Gervase stood irresolute, his eyes fixed on that wondrous golden figure that floated before his eyes like an aerial vision. Denzil Murray had gone forward to meet the Princess and was now talking to her, his handsome face radiating with the admiration he made no attempt to conceal. After a little pause Gervase moved towards him a step or two, and caught part of the conversation.

"You look the very beau-ideal of an Egyptian Princess," Murray was saying. "Your costume is perfect."

She laughed. Again that sweet, rare laughter! Gervase thrilled with the pulsation of it,--it beat in his ears and smote his brain with a strange echo of familiarity.

"Is it not?" she responded. "I am 'historically correct,' as your friend Dr. Dean would say. My ornaments are genuine,--they all came out of the same tomb."