The clicking of the latch behind me reminded me that I was again in the city of Chicago; and the Ispahan did not let me forget that I had actually been awake the past few hours.

Whenever there has been a killing, the vultures assemble. I had marveled that Morgan Revell had not stumbled across the throne-rug of Saladin before I did. Thus, it was that I was not surprised to have him call at my apartment that very evening.

“Well … most extraordinary, that. Where did you get it?” he demanded, as he paused in the doorway, stripping off his gloves in preparation for the inspection of the Ispahan that bin Ayyub had so generously given me. “Shades of Shah Abbas! Strike me blind, but it seems genuine. And perfect.”

He then parked his bulk in my favorite chair, and poured himself a drink, and proceeded to extract the story. And naturally I was not at all averse to enlightening him; for this would about even up for his eternal boasting of the mosque carpet of Eski Shehr: a remarkable tale, but one which eventually wears on one’s nerves.

“On the level now, did anyone actually make you a present of this Ispahan?” he inquired as I concluded my account of the day’s doings.

“Idiot,” said I, “do you think I could have bought it?”

“Well, no. But still—” His features parted in a reminiscent grin. “Perhaps you remember the mosque carpet of Eski Shehr?”

“Lay off that mosque carpet! No, I got this honestly and without any of your clever devices.”

“Score one for you? But really now, old egg, don’t you know, this is a most unusual tale you’re telling. Quite preposterous … quite! First of all, this bin Ayyub person is a rara avis, and all that, if at all. Who ever heard of one of those beggars who had any appreciation of an antique rug?”

“What about—?”

“Rot! Whoever you were going to cite is probably a dealer. It’s simply preposterous, this bin Ayyub who collects ancient rugs. And that descendant of Saladin; why really, old fruit, that doesn’t hold water at all.”

I insisted that there were Orientals who did appreciate the beauty of the wondrous rugs which they wove.

“Quite so, quite so. But just consider,” countered Revell, “that this Ispahan which you treasure as an antique was painfully new in the days when good old Shah Abbas was so partial to fine weaving and inventing new designs. That jolly prince had nothing but antiques on his hands, and he craved new ones; also new patterns. So much so that he sent artists to Italy to study design.”

“But, damn it, I tell you—”