So matters stood between them when on a certain Thursday in mid September he came up unexpectedly from Wilding Hall and ’phoned through to Clarges Street, asking Cleek to dine with him that night at the Club of the Two Services.

Cleek accepted the invitation gladly and was not a little surprised on arriving to find that, in this instance, dinner was to be served in a little private room and that a third party was also to partake of it.

“Dear chap, pardon me for taking you unawares,” said Sir Henry, as Cleek entered the private room and found himself in the presence of a decidedly military-looking man long past middle life, “but the fact is that immediately after I had telephoned you, I encountered a friend and a—­er—­peculiar circumstance arose which impelled me to secure a private room and to—­er—­throw myself upon your good graces as it were.  Let me have the pleasure, dear chap, of introducing you to my friend, Major Burnham-Seaforth.  Major, you are at last in the presence of the gentleman of whom I spoke—­Mr. Cleek.”

“Mr. Cleek, I am delighted,” said the Major, offering his hand.  “I have heard your praises sung so continuously the past two hours that I feel as if I already knew you.”

“Ah, you mustn’t mind all that Sir Henry says,” replied Cleek, as he shook hands with him.  “He makes mountains out of millstones, and would panegyrize the most commonplace of men if he happened to take a fancy to him.  You mustn’t believe all that Sir Henry says and thinks, Major.”

“I shall be happy, Mr. Cleek, if I can really hope to believe the half of it,” replied the Major, enigmatically—­and was prevented from saying more by the arrival of the waiter and the serving of dinner.

It was not until the meal was over and coffee and cigars had been served and the too attentive waiter had taken his departure that Cleek understood that remark or realised what it portended.  But even then, it was not the Major who explained.

“My dear Cleek,” said Sir Henry, lowering his voice and leaning over the table, “I hope you will not think I have taken a mean advantage of you, but I have brought the Major here to-night for a purpose.  He has, in fact, come to consult you professionally; and upon my recommendation.  Do you object to that, or may I go on?”

“Go on by all means,” replied Cleek.  “I fancy you know very well that there is nothing you might ask of me that I would not at least attempt to do, dear chap.”

“Thanks very much.  Well then, the Major has come, my dear Cleek, to ask you to help in unravelling a puzzle of singular and mystifying interest.  Now you may or may not have heard of a Music Hall artiste—­a sort of conjurer and impersonator combined—­called Zyco the Magician, who was once very popular and was assisted in his illusions by a veiled but reputedly beautiful Turkish lady who was billed on the programmes and posters as ‘Zuilika, the Caliph’s Daughter.’”