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