He handed me the half-sheet of note-paper. On it were written
three words - '_Kasredin_', '_cancer_', and '_v. I._'

'That is the only clue we possess,' he said. 'I cannot construe it,
but I can tell you the story. We have had our agents working in
Persia and Mesopotamia for years - mostly young officers of the
Indian Army. They carry their lives in their hands, and now and
then one disappears, and the sewers of Baghdad might tell a tale.
But they find out many things, and they count the game worth the
candle. They have told us of the star rising in the West, but they
could give us no details. All but one - the best of them. He had
been working between Mosul and the Persian frontier as a muleteer,
and had been south into the Bakhtiari hills. He found out
something, but his enemies knew that he knew and he was pursued.
Three months ago, just before Kut, he staggered into Delamain's
camp with ten bullet holes in him and a knife slash on his forehead.
He mumbled his name, but beyond that and the fact that there was
a Something coming from the West he told them nothing. He died
in ten minutes. They found this paper on him, and since he cried
out the word "Kasredin" in his last moments, it must have had
something to do with his quest. It is for you to find out if it has
any meaning.'

I folded it up and placed it in my pocket-book.

'What a great fellow! What was his name?' I asked.

Sir Walter did not answer at once. He was looking out of the
window. 'His name,' he said at last, 'was Harry Bullivant. He was