ed my clammy forehead, glancing with distaste at the pile of
work which lay before me. Then my eyes turned to an open quarto
book. It was the late Professor Deeping's "Assyrian Mythology,"
and embodied the result of his researches into the history of the
Hashishin, the religious murderers of whose existence he had been
so skeptical. To the Chief of the Order, the terrible Sheikh Hassan
of Aleppo, he referred as a "fabled being"; yet it was at the hands
of this "fabled being" that he had met his end! How incredible it
all seemed. But I knew full well how worthy of credence it was.

Then upon my gloomy musings a sound intruded--the ringing of my door
bell. I rose from my chair with a weary sigh, went to the door,
and opened it. An aged Oriental stood without. He was tall and
straight, had a snow-white beard and clear-cut, handsome features.
He wore well-cut European garments and a green turban. As I stood
staring he saluted me gravely.

"Mr. Cavanagh?" he asked, speaking in faultless English.

"I am he."

"I learn that the services of a Moslem workman are required."

"Quite correct, sir; but you should apply at the offices of Messrs.
Rawson & Rawson, Chancery Lane."

The old man bowed, smiling.

"Many thanks; I understood so much. But, my position being a
peculiar one, I wished to speak with you--as a friend of the late
Professor."

I hesitated. The old man looked harmless enough, but there was an
air of mystery about the matter which put me on my guard.

"You will pardon me," I said, "but the work is scarcely of a kind--"

He raised his thin hand.

"I am not undertaking it myself. I wished to explain to you the
conditions under which I could arrange to furnish suitable porters."

His patient explanation disposed me to believe that he was merely
some kind of small contractor, and in any event I had nothing to
fear from this frail old man.

"Step in, sir," I said, repenting of my brusquerie--and stood
aside for him.

He entered, with that Oriental meekness in which there is
something majestic. I placed a chair for him in the study, and
reseated myself at the table. The old man, who from the first had
kept his eyes lowered deferentially, turned to me with a gentle
gesture, as if to apologize for opening the conversation.

"From the papers, Mr. Cavanagh," he began, "I have learned of the
circumstances attending the death of Professor Deeping. Your
papers"--he smiled, and I thought I had nev