is Serim Pasha, chief of the palace police. He
has eyes around twice; one in the forehead, one in each ear, one in the
behind of his head. He did not see her--if he did--well, we would not
be talk now together--sure not after to-morrow night."

"But what has he got to do with it? What did you say her name was?
Yuleima?"

"Yes, Yuleima. What has Serim to do with her? Well, I tell you. If she
get away off go Serim's head. Listen! I speak something you never hear
anywhere 'cept in Turk-man's land. I know it all--everything. I know
her prince--he knows me. I meet him Damascus once--he told me some
things then--the tears run his cheeks down like a baby's when he
talk--and Serim know I know somethings! Ah! that's why he not believe
me if he catch me talk to her. Afterward I find more out from my friend
in Yuleima's house--he is the gardener. Put your head close, effendi."

I drew my chair nearer and listened.

"Yuleima," began Joe, "is one womans like no other womans in all--"

But I shall not attempt the dragoman's halting, broken jargon
interspersed with Italian and German words--it will grate on you as it
grated on me. I will assume for the moment--and Joe would be most
thankful to have me do so--that the learned Hornstog, the friend of
kings and princes, is as fluent in English as he is in Turkish, Arabic,
and Greek.

It all began in a caique--or rather in two caiques. One was on its way
to a little white house that nestles among the firs at the foot of the
bare brown hill overlooking the village of Beicos. The other was bound
for the Fountain Beautiful, where the women and their slaves take the
air in the soft summer mornings.

In the first caique, rowed by two caique-jis gorgeously dressed in
fluffy trousers and blouses embroidered in gold, sat the daughter of
the rich Bagdad merchant.

In the second caique, cigarette in hand, lounged the nephew of the
Khedive, Mahmoud Bey; scarce twenty, slight, oval face with full lips,
hair black as sealskin and as soft, and eyes that smouldered under
heavy lids. Four rowers in blue and silver attended his Highness, the
amber-colored boat skimming the waters as a tropical bird skims a
lagoon.

The two had passed each other the week before on the day of the
Selamlik (the Turkish holiday) while paddling up the Sweet Waters of
Asia--a little brook running into the Bosphorus and deep enough for
caiques to float, and every day since that blissful moment my lady had
spent the