s you and chucks you
out if you haven't the straight tip. I'll show you the way, if you
like."

"Allons, en avant!" said the Chevalier gayly. "I precipitate myself
there on the instant."

"Remember!" hissed McFeckless, grasping his arm, "you shall account to
me!"

"Bien!" said the Chevalier, shaking him off lightly. "All
a-r-r-right." Then, in that incomparable baritone, which had so often
enthralled thousands, he moved away, trolling the first verse of the
Princess's own faint, sweet, sad song of the "Lotus Lily," that
thrilled McFeckless even through the Chevalier's marked French accent:--

"Oh, a hard zing to get is ze Lotus Lillee!
She lif in ze swamp--in ze watair chillee;
She make your foot wet--and you look so sillee,
But you buy her for sixpence in Piccadillee!"

In half an hour the two men reached the remote suburb where the
Princess lived, a gloomy, windowless building. Pausing under a low
archway over which in Egyptian characters appeared the faded legend,
"Sta Ged Oor," they found a Nubian slave blocking the dim entrance.

"I leave you here," said Flossy hurriedly, "as even I left once
before--only then I was lightly assisted by his sandaled foot," he
added, rubbing himself thoughtfully. "But better luck to you."

As his companion retreated swiftly, the Chevalier turned to the slave
and would have passed in, but the man stopped him. "Got a pass, boss?"

"No," said the Chevalier.

The man looked at him keenly. "Oh, I see! one of de profesh."

The Chevalier nodded haughtily. The man preceded him by devious,
narrow ways and dark staircases, coming abruptly upon a small apartment
where the Princess sat on a low divan. A single lamp inclosed in an
ominous wire cage flared above her. Strange things lay about the floor
and shelves, and from another door he could see hideous masks,
frightful heads, and disproportionate faces. He shuddered slightly,
but recovered himself and fell on his knees before her. "I lofe you,"
he said madly. "I have always lofed you!"

"For how long?" she asked, with a strange smile.

He covertly consulted his shirt cuff. "For tree tousand fife hundred
and sixty-two years," he said rapidly.

She looked at him disdainfully. "The doctor has been putting you up to
that! It won't wash! I don't refer to your shirt cuff," she added
with deep satire.

"Adorable one!" he broke out passionately, attempting to embrace her,
"I have come to ta