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“I must confess, sir, that during the eight years that I have spent in search of adventure and in relieving distress I have never encountered a more interesting or a more perplexing case. I fear that I have overlooked hens in my researches and observations. As to their habits, their times and manner of laying, their many varieties and cross-breedings, their span of life, their–“

“Oh, don’t make an Ibsen drama of it!” interrupted the young man, flippantly. “Riddles–especially old Hildebrant’s riddles–don’t have to be worked out seriously. They are light themes such as Sim Ford and Harry Thurston Peck like to handle. But, somehow, I can’t strike just the answer. Bill Watson may, and he may not. To-morrow will tell. Well, Your Majesty, I’m glad anyhow that you butted in and whiled the time away. I guess Mr. Al Rashid himself would have bounced back if one of his constituents had conducted him up against this riddle. I’ll say good night. Peace fo’ yours, and what-you-may-call-its of Allah.”

The Margrave, still with a gloomy air, held out his hand.

“I cannot exppress my regret,” he said, sadly. “Never before have I found myself unable to assist in some way. ‘What kind of a hen lays the longest? It is a baffling problem. There is a hen, I believe, called the Plymouth Rock that–“

“Cut it out,” said the young man. “The Caliph trade is a mighty serious one. I don’t suppose you’d even see anything funny in a preacher’s defense of John D. Rockefeller. Well, good night, Your Nibs.”

From habit the Margrave began to fumble in his pockets. He drew forth a card and handed it to the young man.

“Do me the favor to accept this, anyhow,” he said. “The time may come when it might be of use to you.”

“Thanks!” said the young man, pocketing it carelessly. “My name is Simmons.”

* * * * * *

Shame to him who would hint that the reader’s interest shall altogether pursue the Margrave August Michael von Paulsen Quigg. I am indeed astray if my hand fail in keeping the way where my peruser’s heart would follow. Then let us, on the morrow, peep quickly in at the door of Hildebrant, harness maker.

Hildebrant’s 200 pounds reposed on a bench, silverbuckling a raw leather martingale.

Bill Watson came in first.

“Vell,” said Hildebrant, shaking all over with the vile conceit of the joke-maker, “haf you guessed him? ‘Vat kind of a hen lays der longest?'”

“Er–why, I think so,” said Bill, rubbing a servile chin. “I think so, Mr. Hildebrant–the one that lives the longest– Is that right?”

“Nein!” said Hildebrant, shaking his head violently. “You haf not guessed der answer.”

Bill passed on and donned a bed-tick apron and bachelorhood.

In came the young man of the Arabian Night’s fiasco–pale, melancholy, hopeless.

“Vell,” said Hildebrant, “haf you guessed him? ‘Vat kind of a hen lays der longest?'”

Simmons regarded him with dull savagery in his eye. Should he curse this mountain of pernicious humor–curse him and die? Why should– But there was Laura.

Dogged, speechless, he thrust his hands into his coat pockets and stood. His hand encountered the strange touch of the Margrave’s card. He drew it out and looked at it, as men about to be hanged look at a crawling fly. There was written on it in Quigg’s bold, round hand: “Good for one roast chicken to bearer.”

Simmons looked up with a flashing eye.

“A dead one!” said he.

“Goot!” roared Hildebrant, rocking the table with giant glee. “Dot is right! You gome at mine house at 8 o’clock to der party.”