My family has formed alliances with the most noble blood of England, and the Merestons, the Parnabys, the Hollingtons, have been proud to give their daughters to my house.”
“Those are facts which can be verified in works of reference,” said Arthur dryly.
“They can,” said Oliver.
“And the Eastern palaces in which your youth was spent, and the black slaves who waited on you, and the bearded sheikhs who imparted to you secret knowledge?” cried Dr. Porhoët.
“I was educated at Eton, and I left Oxford in 1896.”
“Would you mind telling me at what college you were?” said Arthur.
“I was at the House.”
“Then you must have been there with Frank Hurrell.”
“Now assistant physician at St. Luke’s Hospital. He was one of my most intimate friends.”
“I’ll write and ask him about you.”
“I’m dying to know what you did with all the lions you slaughtered,” said Susie Boyd.
The man’s effrontery did not exasperate her as it obviously exasperated Margaret and Arthur. He amused her, and she was anxious to make him talk.
“They decorate the floors of Skene, which is the name of my place in Staffordshire.” He paused for a moment to light a cigar. “I am the only man alive who has killed three lions with three successive shots.”
“I should have thought you could have demol-
