“Ah yes, surely. Nevertheless, I insist that the appreciation of antiques is an Occidental taste, and one which is jolly well artificial. Remember that little Armenian in Ashjian’s showrooms and how much he felt that we were upset above the ears for preferring a threadbare Kabistan to a new Sarouk?”

I remembered.

“Well, now go to Ashjian’s and let that same lad catch you admiring a Kirman rose-rug. Hear him sigh with much ecstasy; see him caper about; get the gallons of praise he pours on the heads of those fine old eggs who really knew how to weave a rug. He knows his litany now; but he wasn’t born that way.”

Revell scored.

“But bin Ayyub is a cultured gentleman. I’ll take you out to his house, and then you’ll be convinced about it all, including his being a descendant of Saladin.”

“Very well, have it your own way. You know, it really may be quite possible. Only, it’s just a bit unusual, if you know what I mean,” Revell finally conceded as I completed my repetition of the story and added bits of color I had omitted the first time. “Not that I doubted your word. But in all honesty, old onion, can you blame me for being a shade skeptical? When even the Shah’s palace in Teheran is cluttered with gilt bric-a-brac, and modern Sultanieh rugs, and all that sort of atrocious thing. Beastly taste these beggars show. But this bin Ayyub fellow may be an exception. Though I contend that whatever the art the Orient provides is the result of instinct and not intent.”

I granted most of his contentions. And then we discussed the great jar of attar, and the surpassing loveliness of bin Ayyub’s “family.”

“Most fascinating, really. This sounds like what people think the Orient ought to be, but never actually is. Houris, and incense, and all that sort of thing.”

Then, just as he left: “By the way, did you ever read the quaint little tale of Aladdin’s lamp?”

“Sure. What of it?”

“Nothing, really nothing at all. Merely curious, you know.”

Now what had that buzzard meant by that remark? A subtle way of calling me an out-and-out romancer? Or did he mean that in getting my Ispahan I had stumbled into something, Aladdin-like?

And then I carefully examined the Ispahan. No, Revell had not palmed it and left a replica in its place. Strangely enough, he had not even tried to trade or bargain for it.

It was fully two weeks before I could find time to call on bin Ayyub to inspect the restoration of the throne-rug. But finally, I did contrive to find some spare time, and just to convince Revell that I had not been releasing an Arabian fantasy, I decided to take him along.

“Cheers, old bean!” greeted Revell. “I was just thinking … But how do you like it?”