“Yussuf,” he said, “as you know, we now have a new Director-General—a younger man, a man of great energy and—I say it in no pejorative sense—ambition. He has made it known that he will want the upper positions of the Organization to be filled increasingly by men and women of youth and vigor like himself. Naturally, he respects the abilities—I may say, the devotion—of” (here Pylos gave a rueful smile) “old-stagers like ourselves. But I would be less than honest with you if I did not mention that this new emphasis on a younger staff may hamper your prospects for the immediate future.”

As Pylos uttered these words and leaned back in his chair, not displeased with himself, Choudhury’s hands convulsively grasped the edge of the desk, and Choudhury himself turned gray. He got to his feet and, still gripping the edge of the desk as if he would tip it over, uttered a stream of agitated words in his own language. Pylos, greatly shocked, remained seated with an effort, looking up into Choudhury’s wild eyes. Such a thing had never happened to him before, and fortunately it did not last long. In a moment or two Choudhury subsided, and sank down trembling into his chair. His breath came and went sobbingly; his forehead was wet, his hands quivered. He murmured a distraught apology.

Maintaining a certain reserve, Pylos reassured him. “You must have been overworking,” he said. “Letting things get you down.”

But Choudhury, doubtless not wishing to compound the impression of decrepitude, denied this. Limply he asked leave to go. Pylos saw him to the door. He put his hand on Choudhury’s arm. “We’ll have to see what can be done about your future,” he said—his thoughts already turning toward Kabul.

When Choudhury had gone, Pylos sat down again. He wanted to forget what had just taken place, but he could not face the contents of his In-tray so he simply sat there for a while, feeling uneasy. It wasn’t so much Choudhury’s going to pieces that bothered him: it was what Choudhury had said. Not that Pylos understood a word of Urdu, of course. But he knew well enough when he heard the name of Sadie Graine.

Once in a great while, it happens that a scholarly book, a large, difficult, and demanding book, a book not devoid of footnotes and statistics, will by its very erudition engage the public interest. It was so with Gibbon’s first volume; it has happened more recently with the respective works of Professor Myrdal and Doctor Kinsey. And thus it was with the work of Ashmole-Brown.