And that smile drove me mad. Thanks to my babbling, Revell had turned a very clever trick; and thanks also to me, that dainty girl’s shoulders … no, bin Ayyub wouldn’t beat her himself; he’d have Saoud lay aside his duties of footman, pipe-bearer and coffee-grinder, and peel every inch of skin off her shoulders. The noble Turk is a man of few words and short temper when dealing with his family. All of which went to my head, seeing that it was mainly my fault for having set Revell on the trail.

“Listen, you damned coyote!”

I gripped Revell by the shoulder by way of emphasis. He blinked in amazement.

“Listen and get me straight: you’re going to return that rug here and now. Bin Ayyub treated me like a gentleman. And moreover, it’s my fault if that girl gets the daylights hammered out of her; my fault, and yours.”

“Come now, try and act naturally,” mocked Revell, who had mastered his amazement at my outburst. “I, return that rug? Absurd. Really preposterous. Why, as I said, I’d have committed—”

And then Revell stared as I leaped to the arm of a davenport, reached up, and yanked Saladin’s throne-rug from its place on the wall.

“Wait a minute. This is getting a bit thick. I say—”

By this time, I was seeing red and also other colors.

“One more word out of you and I’ll knock your head off! I’m taking this rug back to its owner. Get me?”

Revell is far from yellow. But somehow, I convinced him. The last glimpse I had of him, he was the color of an old saddle, and choking for breath.

“Really now, but this is a bit thick,” he contrived, as I slammed the door. I missed the rest, but I am sure that for the next fifteen minutes it was a bit thick in the Revell apartment.

Throne-rug trailing over my shoulder, I hopped a taxi and proceeded to bin Ayyub’s house.

Bin Ayyub himself admitted me. I recognized him simply because no mask could disguise those lean, aquiline features; but this which faced me was but a simulacrum of the vital personality I had met two weeks ago. His face was unshaven; his eyes were cavernous and dull, lifeless; gone was all save the shell of Saladin’s descendant. The change was so startling, so dismaying, that for the moment I forgot the throne-rug I carried, rolled up under my arm.

In view of the denunciation and wrath, I expected accusations of having played a part in the trickery of Revell, this listlessness of bin Ayyub left me dazed and wondering.

“I am glad to see you, effendi,” he murmured, as he conducted me into the salon. He had not offered to take my hat and coat; had not noticed the bundle I carried.

“The throne rug,” I began, offering him the precious roll. “I regret—”