The Sister does not cry out, and call upon those who are present to avenge the insult—­even had she been a Moorish lady, the demand for punishment would not come from her, but from those of the sterner sex near-by.

Instead, she stands there as if waiting for him to speak—­stands there like a statue in black.

John at once apologizes for his rudeness—­he is already sorry for what he has done.

“Madame, pardon.  I believed you were one very dear to me, one who wears the insignia of your order, one for whom I have searched far and near, half the world over—­my mother.”

“It was a bold act, young sir, but far be it from me to denounce you.  Tell me, how would you know this mother?” she asks, in a thick voice.

“She is known as Sister Magdalen—­perhaps you know her—­she may even be staying at the same convent as yourself,” eagerly.

“I know one Sister Magdalen, a sweet, quiet woman, lately from Malta, whither she went to consult the head of our order.”

Her words arouse John.

“It is she.  If you would only take me to her, I would at once be rid of all these doubts and fears.”

“Would you come?”

John has forgotten the warning of Mustapha, forgotten all former experiences.  There is a crowd gathering around them, and this is one of the things he was to guard against, still he pays little attention to this fact, his mind is so bent upon accomplishing his object.

“Eagerly.  Once this night I have risked much to find my mother, and I am ready to do more.”

“Then follow me.  Better still, walk at my side, for I see ugly faces around.  You have made enemies, but I will stand between.  My garb is sacred, and they will respect it.”

“I am ready, lead on.”

What is this that plucks at his sleeve?  He half-turns impatiently, and looks into a face he ought to know full well, but which he now sees with something of annoyance.

“Ah! professor, is it you?  Sorry—­in something of a hurry—­”

“Hold on; some one wants to see you.”

“Have to do later.”

“Don’t say so, John.  Important, I tell you.”

“So is this.  Good-by.”

The professor is not so easily shaken off, but tightens his hold.  John will have to dislodge him by muscular force.

“Are you coming?” asks the Sister.

“Yes, when I have broken loose from the hands of this madman.”

He turns upon the professor.

“John, be careful.  Cool off; you are excited.”

“I’m of an age to take care of myself.  When I need a guardian, I’ll call on you.  Once more I say, release your grasp.”

He actually looks ugly for the moment, and Philander does let go, but it is only because, as an advance courier, he has accomplished his mission, and not on account of any fear.

As Doctor Chicago turns to follow the Sister, he draws in a long breath, for he finds himself face to face with Lady Ruth.