through the narrow streets of Bagdad upon a jerky white dromedary so
tall that he could peek through the latticed balconies at the plump,
black-eyed odalisques within the harems, slowly came back from Turkey to
New York.

"Gentlemen of the jury," said he, pulling himself together, "the
defendant here is charged by the Grand Jury with having murdered Fatima
the daughter of Abbas--I beg your pardon! I mean--who was it?--one Sardi
Babu. I will first define to you the degrees of homicide--"

* * * * *

One day three months later, after Kasheed Hassoun had been twice tried
upon the same testimony and the jury had disagreed--six to six, each
time--Mr. Tutt, who had overstayed his lunch hour at the office, put on
his stovepipe hat and strolled along Washington Street, looking for a
place to pick up a bite to eat. It was in the middle of the afternoon
and most of the stores were empty, which was all the more to his liking.
He had always wanted to try some of that Turkish pie that they had all
talked so much about at the trial. Presently a familiar juxtaposition of
names caught his eye--Ghabryel & Assad. The very restaurant which had
been the scene of the crime! Curiously, he turned in there. Like all the
other places it was deserted, but at the sound of his footsteps a little
Syrian boy not more than ten years old came from behind the screen at
the end of the room and stood bashfully awaiting his order.

Mr. Tutt smiled one of his genial weather-beaten smiles at the youngster
and glancing idly over the bill of fare ordered _biklama_ and coffee.
Then he lit a stogy and stretched his long legs comfortably out under
the narrow table. Yes, this was the very spot where either Sardi Babu