how sweet a smile can overspread the face of a Turk
when he is granting you a favor or signing the death
warrant of an infidel--clapped his hands, summoning
an attendant who came in on all fours, and whispered
an order in the left ear of the almost prostrate
man. This done, the Pasha rose from his seat,
straightened his shoulders (no handsomer men the
world over than these high-class Turks), shook my
hand warmly, gave me the Turkish salute--heart,
mouth, and forehead touched with the tips of flying
fingers--and bowed me out.

Once through the flat leather curtain that hid the
exit door of the Pasha's office, and into the bare
corridor, I led Joe to a corner out of the hearing
of the ever-present spy, and, nailing him to the wall,
propounded this query:

"What did the High-Pan-Jam say, Joe?"

Hornstog raised his shoulders level with his ears,
fanned out his fingers, crooked his elbows, and in his
best conglomerate answered:

"He say, effendi, that a guard of ein men, Yusuf,
his name--I know him--he is in the Secret Service--
oh, we will have no trouble with him--" Here
Joe chafed his thumb and forefinger with the movement
of a paying teller counting a roll. "He come
every morning to Galata Bridge for you me. He