Let him speak; good may even come out of Chicago," says the lovely houri at the side of the Moor, and John thanks her with his eyes, mentally concluding that, after all, Moorish females, if nonentities on the street, have certain rights under their own roofs.
At this the great doctor frowns, but cannot withstand the angelic, appealing glance which his daughter bestows upon him.
"Perhaps it is so.

What have you to say, you who bear that hated name?
Since through the kindness of my child you are given the opportunity to speak, embrace it." The situation is a peculiar one, and John feels that he must make the most of it.
"Illustrious Moor, listen then while I relate the reason for my presence, why for months I have searched country after country for one who ever seemed to be just beyond my reach, like a will-o'-the-wisp dancing over the swampy ground.
"The person I seek is known as Sister Magdalen.

It is with no unworthy motive I would find her, Ben Taleb, for she is my mother." At this the sheik and his daughter exchange significant glances.
Perhaps something of incredulity may be discovered in their expression.
Evidently they have heard but little of the story before, and only know that the troubles of the woman they revere came through a Craig.
John, having become stirred up, proceeds to tell them more of the past, and, while not caring to show emotion in the eyes of strangers, explains his feelings in the matter with a dignity that does him full justice.
While not thoroughly convinced, for he suspects there may be some artifice in this visit, the venerable Moor is inclined to look more favorably upon John.
"Perhaps you may not be so bad as I believed, but do not hope to receive news from me," is his slowly spoken remark.
John's heart sinks, he fears that after all his long search he is now to be frustrated by the stubborn will of an old man.
He even becomes eloquent in his appeal, and, while he fails to bring Ben Taleb to terms, he charms the sheik's daughter, whose lovely eyes glisten as she hears.
At last he wrings one promise from the Moor, to the effect that he will communicate with the lady in question, and stating the whole case, allow her to decide.
This is certainly fair enough, and Ben Taleb presumes to be a man who desires to do that which is right.

Hence he agrees, but will not let John know whether news can be sent to him at the hotel on the morrow, or a week later.

He must learn to practice the divine art of patience, and bide his time.
This, while a keen disappointment with regard to what he had expected and hoped for, is the best that can be done under the circumstances.
John is something of a philosopher.
When he has done his best, he is willing to trust the rest to fortune.
So he assumes a cheerfulness he is far from feeling, and assures Ben Taleb he will always be indebted to him for his kindness.