that there may be other incentives," I said. "But I must confess, I'd
rather believe that Armenian spies were on the track of Ahmed Antoun,
who can take care of himself, than after poor Miss Gilder or--any of
her party."

"What's the name of the laughing sprite?" suddenly asked Fenton.

"Mrs.--er--Jones. Brigit Jones."

"Where's her husband?"

"In his grave."

"Oh! Well, his widow looks ready to bubble over with the joy of life,
so I suppose we can't associate spies or anything shady with her?
That's too much to hope for?"

"Why to 'hope' for?"

"It would make her too interesting."

"Look here, my dear fellow, you can't have them both!"

The dark eyes of Antoun lit with a spark of surprise and laughter. "I
don't want either, thanks. I admire flowers, but I never gather them. I
leave them growing. However, you might tell me which one you want for
your own buttonhole?" "Really, I don't know," I mumbled, taken aback.
"All I do know is, it's not likely I can get either."

Anthony stared at me with a curious expression, then abruptly changed