"Yes, the Rangar. Yasmini's man."

"Not much. I've seen him. I've spoken with him, and I've had to
stand impudence from him--twice. I've been tipped off more than
once to let him alone because he's her man. He does ticklish errands
for her, or so they say. He's what you might call 'known to the
police' all right."

They began to approach an age-old palace near the river, and Saunders
whispered a pass-word when an armed guard halted them. They were
halted again at a gloomy gateway where an officer came out to look
them over; by his leave they left the gharry and followed him under
the arch until their heels rang on stone paving in a big ill-lighted
courtyard surrounded by high walls.

There, after a little talk, they left Ismail squatting beside King's
bag, and Saunders led the way through a modern iron door, into what
had once been a royal prince's stables.

In gloom that was only thrown into contrast by a wide-spaced row
of electric lights, a long line of barred and locked converted
horse-stalls ran down one side of a lean-to building. The upper
half of each locked door was a grating of steel rods, so that there
was some ventilation for the prisoners; but very little light
filtered between the bars, and all that King could see of the men
within was the whites of their eyes. And they did not look friendly.

He had to pass between them and the light, and they could see more
of him than he could of them. At the first cell he raised his left