It was not an easy matter to make Balsamides Bey take a fancy to Paul, for he was, and still is, a man full of prejudice, if also full of wit.  In his well-shaped head resides an intelligence of no mean order, and the lines graven in his pale face express thought and study, while suggesting also an extreme love of sarcasm and a caustic, incredulous humor.  His large and deep-set blue eyes seem to look at things only to criticise them, never to enjoy them, and his arched eyebrows bristle like defenses set up between the world with its interests on the one side and the inner man Balsamides on the other.  Though he wears a heavy brown mustache, it is easy to see that underneath it his thin lips curl scornfully, and are drawn down at the extremities of his mouth.  He is very scrupulous in his appearance, whether he wears the uniform of a Sultan’s adjutant, or the morning dress of an ordinary man of the world, or the official evening coat of the Turks, made like that of an English clergyman, but ornamented by a string of tiny decorations attached to the buttonhole on the left side.  Gregorios Balsamides is of middle height, slender and well built, a matchless horseman, and long inured to every kind of hardship, though his pallor and his delicate white hands suggest a constitution anything but hardy.

He is the natural outcome of the present state of civilization in Turkey; and as it is not easy for the ordinary mind to understand the state of the Ottoman Empire without long study, so it is not by any means a simple matter to comprehend the characters produced by the modern condition of things in the East.  Balsamides Bey is a man who seems to unite in himself as many contradictory qualities and characteristics as are to be found in any one living man.  He is a thorough Turk in principle, but also a thorough Western Frank in education.  He has read immensely in many languages, and speaks French and English with remarkable fluency.  He has made an especial study of modern history, and can give an important date, a short account of a great battle, or a brief notice of a living celebrity, with an ease and accuracy that many a student might envy.  He reads French and English novels, and probably possesses a contraband copy of Byron, whose works are proscribed in Turkey and confiscated by the custom-house.  He goes into European society as well as among Turks, Greeks, and Armenians.  Although a Greek by descent, he loves the Turks and is profoundly attached to the reigning dynasty, under whom his father and grandfather lived and prospered.  A Christian by birth and education, he has a profound respect for the Mussulman faith, as being the religion of the government he serves, and a profound hatred of the Armenian, whom he regards as the evil genius of the Osmanli.  He is a man whom many trust, but whose chief desire seems to be to avoid all show of power.  He is often consulted on important matters, but his discretion is proof against all attacks, and there is not a journalist nor correspondent in Pera who can boast of ever having extracted the smallest item of information from Balsamides Bey.

These are his good qualities, and they are solid ones, for he is a thoroughly well-informed man, exceedingly clever, and absolutely trustworthy.  On the other hand, he is cold, sarcastic, and possibly cruel, and occasionally he is frank almost to brutality.

On the very evening of our arrival in Pera I went to see him, for he is an old friend of mine.  I found him alone in his small lodgings in the Grande Rue, reading a yellow-covered French novel by the light of a German student-lamp.  The room was simply furnished with a table, a divan, three or four stiff, straight-backed chairs, and a bookcase.  But on the matted floor and divan there were two or three fine Sine carpets; a couple of trophies of splendidly ornamented weapons adorned the wall; by his side, upon a small eight-sided table inlaid with tortoise-shell and mother-of-pearl, stood a silver salver with an empty coffee-cup of beautiful workmanship, ­the stand of beaten gold, and the delicate shell of the most exquisite transparent china.  He had evidently been on duty at the palace, for he was in uniform, and had removed only his long riding-boots, throwing himself down in his chair to read the book in which he was interested.

On seeing me, he rose suddenly and put out his hand.

“Is it you?  Where have you come from?” he cried.

“From England, to see you,” I answered.

“You must stay with me,” he said at once.  “The spare room is ready,” he added, leading me to the door.  Then he clapped his hands to call the servant, before I could prevent him.

“But I have already been to the hotel,” I protested.

“Go to Missiri’s with a hamal, and bring the Effendi’s luggage,” he said to the servant, who instantly disappeared.

“Caught,” he exclaimed, laughing, as he opened the door and showed me my little room.  I had slept there many a night in former times, and I loved his simple hospitality.

“You are the same as ever,” I said.  “A man cannot put his nose inside your door without being caught, as you call it.”

“Many a man may,” he answered.  “But not you, my dear fellow.  Now ­you will have coffee and a cigarette.  We will dine at home.  There is pilaff and kebabi and a bottle of champagne.  How are you?  I forgot to ask.”

“Very well, thanks,” said I, as we came back to the sitting-room.  “I am always well, you know.  You look pale, but that is nothing new.  You have been on duty at the palace?”

“Friday,” he answered laconically, which meant that he had been at the Selamlek, attending the Sultan to the weekly service at the mosque.

“You used to get back early in the day.  Have the hours changed?”

“Man of Belial,” he replied, “with us nothing changes.  I was detained at the palace.  So you have come all the way from England to see me?”

“Yes, ­and to ask you a question and a favor.”

“You shall have the answer and my services.”

“Do not promise before you have heard.  ’Two acrobats cannot always dance on the same rope,’ as your proverb says.”

“And ‘Every sheep hangs by its own heels,’” said he.  “I will take my chance with you.  First, the question, please.”

“Did you ever hear of Alexander Patoff?”

Balsamides looked at me a moment, with the air of a man who is asked an exceedingly foolish question.

“Hear of him?  I have heard of nothing else for the last eighteen months.  I have an indigestion brought on by too much Alexander Patoff.  Is that your errand, Griggs?  How in the world did you come to take up that question?”

“You have been asked about him before?” I inquired.

“I tell you there is not a dog in Constantinople that has not been kicked for not knowing where that fellow is.  I am sick of him, alive or dead.  What do I care about your Patoffs?  The fool could not take care of himself when he was alive, and now the universe is turned upside down to find his silly body.  Where is he?  At the bottom of the Bosphorus.  How did he get there?  By the kind exertions of his brother, who then played the comedy of tearing his hair so cleverly that his ambassador believed him.  Very simple:  if you want to find his body, I can tell you how to do it.”

“How?” I asked eagerly.

“Drain the Bosphorus,” he answered, with a sneer.  “You will find plenty of skulls at the bottom of it.  The smallest will be his, to a dead certainty.”

“My dear fellow,” I protested, “his brother did not kill him.  The proof is that Paul Patoff has come hack swearing that he will find some trace of Alexander.  He came with me, and I believe his story.”

“He is only renewing the comedy, ­tearing his hair on the anniversary of the death, like a well-paid mourner.  Of course, somebody has accused him again of the murder.  He will have to tear his hair every time he is accused, in order to keep up appearances.  He knows, and he alone knows, where the dead man is.”

“But if he killed him the kavass must have known it ­must have helped him.  You remember the story?”

“I should think so.  What does the kavass prove?  Nothing.  He was probably told to go off for a moment, and now will not confess it.  Money will do anything.”

“There remains the driver of the carriage,” I objected.  “He saw Alexander go into Agia Sophia, but he never saw him come out.”

“And is anything easier than that?  A man might learn those few words in three minutes.  That proves nothing.”

“There is the probability,” I argued.  “Many persons have disappeared in Stamboul before now.”

“Nonsense, Griggs,” he answered.  “You know that when anything of the kind has occurred it has generally turned out that the missing man was bankrupt.  He disappeared to reappear somewhere else under another name.  I do not believe a word of all those romances.  To you Franks we are a nation of robbers, murderers, and thieves; we are the Turkey of Byron, always thirsting for blood, spilling it senselessly, and crying out for more.  If that idiot allowed his brother to kill him without attracting a crowd, ­in Stamboul, in the last week of Ramazan, when everybody is out of doors, ­he deserved his fate, that is all.”

“I do not believe he is dead,” I said, “and I have come here to ask you to make the acquaintance of Paul Patoff.  If you still believe him to be a murderer when you have heard him tell his story, I shall be very much surprised.”

“I should tear him to pieces if I met him,” said Balsamides, with a laugh.  “The mere sight of anybody called Patoff would bring on an attack of the nerves.”

“Be serious,” said I.  “Do you think I would be so foolish as to interest myself in this business unless I believed that it could be cleared of all mystery and explained?”

“You have been in England,” retorted Gregorios.  “That will explain any kind of insanity.  Do you want me to pester every office in the government with new inquiries?  It will do no good.  Everything has been tried.  The man is gone without leaving a trace.  No amount of money will produce information.  Can I say more?  Where money fails, a man need not be so foolish as to hope anything from his intelligence.”

“I am foolish enough to hope something,” I replied.  “If you will not help me, I must go elsewhere.  I will not give up the thing at the start.”

“Well, if I say I will help you, what do you expect me to do?  Can I do anything which has not been done already?  If so, I will do it.  But I will not harness myself to a rotten cart, as the proverb says.  It is quite useless to expect anything more from the police.”

“I expect nothing from them.  I believe that Alexander is alive, and has been hidden by somebody rich enough and strong enough to baffle pursuit.”

“What put that into your head?” asked my companion, looking at me with sudden curiosity.

“Nothing but the reduction of the thing to the last analysis.  Either he is dead, or he is alive.  As you say, he could hardly have been killed on such a night without attracting attention.  Besides, the motives for Paul’s killing him were wholly inadequate.  No, let me go on.  Therefore I say that he was taken alive.”

“Where?”

“In Santa Sophia.”

“But then,” argued Balsamides, “the driver would have seen him carried out.”

“Yes,” I admitted.  “That is the difficulty.  But he might perhaps have been taken through the porch; at all events, he must have gone down the stairs alone, taking the lantern.”

“They found the lantern,” said Gregorios.  “You did not know that?  A long time afterwards the man who opens the towers confessed that when he had gone up with the brothers and the kavass he had found that his taper was burnt out.  He picked up the kavass’s lantern and carried it down, meaning to return with the next party of foreigners.  No other foreigners came, and when he went up to find the Patoffs they were gone and the carriage was gone.  He kept the lantern, until the offers of reward induced him to give it up and tell his story.”

“That proves nothing, except that Alexander went down-stairs in the dark.”

“I have an idea, Griggs!” cried Balsamides, suddenly changing his tone.  “It proves this, ­that Alexander did not necessarily go down the steps at all.”

“I do not understand.”

“There is another way out of that gallery.  Did you know that?  At the other end, in exactly the same position, hidden in the deep arch, there is a second door.  There is also a winding staircase, which leads to the street on the opposite side of the mosque.  Foreigners are never admitted by that side, but it is barely possible that the door may have been open.  Alexander Patoff may have gone down that way, thinking it was the staircase by which he had come up.”

“You see,” I said, delighted at this information, “everything is not exhausted yet.”

“No, I begin to think we are nearer to an explanation.  If that door was open, ­which, however, is very improbable, ­he could have gone down and have got into the street without passing the carriage, which stood on the other side of the mosque.  But, after all, we are no nearer to knowing what ultimately became of him.”

“Would it be possible to find out whether the door was really open, and, if so, who passed that way?” I inquired.

“We shall see,” said Gregorios.  “I will change my mind.  I will make the acquaintance of your Russian friend.  I know him by sight, though I never spoke to him.  When I have talked the matter over with him I will tell you what I think about it.  Let us go to dinner.”

I felt that I had overcome the first great difficulty in persuading Balsamides to take some interest in my errand.  He is one of those men who are very hard to move, but who, when once they are disposed to act at all, are ready to do their best.  Moreover, the existence of the second staircase, leading from the gallery to the street, at once explained how Alexander might have left the church unobserved by the coachman.  I wondered why no one had thought of this.  It had probably not suggested itself to any one, because strangers are never admitted from that side, and because the door is almost always closed.

Gregorios did not refer to the subject again that evening, but amused himself by asking me all manner of questions about the state of England.  We fell to talking about European politics, and the hours passed very pleasantly until midnight.

On the next day I went to see Paul, and told him the result of my first step.  He appeared very grateful.

“It seems hard that my life should be ruined by this thing,” he said wearily.  “Any prospect of news is delightful, however small.  I am under a sort of curse, ­as much as though I had really had something to do with poor Alexander’s death.  It comes up in all sorts of ways.  Unless we can solve the mystery, I shall never be really free.”

“We will solve it,” I said, in order to reassure him.  “Nothing shall be left undone, and I hope that in a few weeks you may feel relieved from all this anxiety.”

“It is more than anxiety; it is pain,” he answered.  I supposed that he was thinking of Hermione, and was silent.  Presently he proposed to go out.  It was a fine day in February, though the snow was on the ground and filled the ruts in the pavement of the Grande Rue de Pera.  Every one was wrapped in furs and every one wore overshoes, without which it is impossible to go out in winter in Constantinople.  The streets were crowded with that strange multitude seen nowhere else in the world; the shops were full of people of all sorts, from the ladies of the embassies to the veiled Turkish ladies, who have small respect for the regulation forbidding them to buy in Frank establishments.  At Galata Serai the huge Kurdish hamals loitered in the sun, waiting for a job, their ropes and the heavy pillows on which they carry their burdens lying at their feet.  The lean dogs sat up and glared hungrily at the huge joints of meat which the butchers’ lads carried through the crowd, forcing their way past the delicate Western ladies, who drew back in horror at the sight of so much raw beef, and through knots of well-dressed men standing before the cafes in the narrow street.  Numberless soldiers moved in the crowd, tall, fair Turks, with broad shoulders and blue eyes, in the shabby uniform of the foot-guards, but looking as though they could fight as well as any smart Prussian grenadier, as indeed they can when they get enough to eat.  Now and then a closed sedan-chair moved rapidly along, borne by sturdy Kurds, and occasionally a considerable disturbance was caused by the appearance of a carriage.  Paul and I strolled down the steep street, past Galata Tower and down into Galata itself.

“Shall we cross?” asked Paul, as we reached the bridge.

“Let us go up the Bosphorus,” I said.  “There will probably be a steamer before long.”

He assented readily enough.  It was about eleven o’clock in the morning, ­five by the Turkish clocks, ­and the day was magnificent.  The sun was high, and illuminated everything in the bright, cold air, so that the domes and minarets of the city were white as snow, with bluish shadows, while the gilded crescents and spires glistened with unnatural brilliancy in the clear winter’s daylight.  It is hard to say whether Stamboul is more beautiful at any one season of the year than during the other three, for every season brings with it some especial loveliness, some new phase of color.  You may reach Serai point on a winter’s morning in a driving snow-storm, so that everything is hidden in the gray veil of the falling flakes; suddenly the clouds will part and the sunlight will fall full upon the city, so that it seems as if every mosque and spire were built of diamonds.  Or you may cross to Scutari in the early dawn of a morning in June, when the sky is like a vast Eastern flower, dark blue in the midst overhead, the petals shaded with every tint to the faint purple on the horizon; and every hue in turn passes over the fantastic buildings, as the shadows gradually take color from the sky, and the soft velvety water laps up the light in broad pools and delicate streaks of tinted reflection.  It is always beautiful, always new; but of all times, I think the hour when the high sun illuminates most distinctly everything on land and sea is the time when Stamboul is most splendid and queenly.

The great ferry-boat heaved and thumped the water, and swung slowly off the wooden pier, while we stood on the upper deck watching the scene before us.  For two men as familiar with Constantinople in all its aspects as we were, it seemed almost ridiculous to go on board a steamer merely for the sake of being carried to the mouth of the Black Sea and back again.  But I have always loved the Bosphorus, and I thought it would amuse Paul to pass the many landings, and to see the crowds of passengers, and to walk about the empty deck.  He was tired with the journey and harassed in mind, and for those ills the open air is the best medicine.

He appeared to enjoy it, and asked me many questions about the palaces and villas on both shores, for I was better acquainted with the place than he.  It seemed to interest him to know that such a villa belonged to such a Pasha, that such another was the property of an old princess of evil fame, while the third had seen strange doings in the days of Mehemet Ali, and was now deserted or inhabited only by ghosts of the past, ­the resort of ghouls and jins from the neighboring grave-yards.  As we lay a moment at the pier of Yeni Koej, ­“New town” sounds less interesting, ­we watched the stream of passengers, and I thought Paul started slightly as a tall, smooth-faced, and hideous negro suddenly turned and looked up to where we stood on the deck, as he left the steamer.  I might have been mistaken, but it was the only approach to an incident of interest which occurred that day.  We reached the upper part of the Bosphorus, and at Yeni Mahalle, within sight of the Black Sea, the ferry-boat described a wide circle and turned once more in the direction of Stamboul.

“I feel better,” said Paul, as we reached Galata bridge and elbowed our way ashore through the crowd.  “We will go again.”

“By all means,” I answered.

From that time during several weeks we frequently made excursions into Stamboul and up the Bosphorus, and the constant enjoyment of the open air did Paul good.  But I could see that wherever we went he watched the people with intense interest; following some individual with his eyes in silence, or trying to see into dark archways and through latticed windows, staring at the files of passengers who came on board the boats or went ashore at the different landings, and apparently never relaxing his attention.  The people grew familiar to me, too, and gradually it appeared that Paul was constructing a method for our peregrinations.  It was he, and not I, who suggested the direction of our expeditions, and I noticed that he chose certain places on certain days.  On Monday, for instance, he never failed to propose a visit to the bazaars, on Tuesday we generally went up the Bosphorus, on Wednesday into Stamboul.  On Friday afternoons, when the weather was fine, we used to ride out to the Sweet Waters of Europe; for Friday is the Mussulman’s day of rest, and on that day all who are able love to go out to the Kiat-hane ­the “paper-mill,” ­where they pass the afternoon in driving and walking, eating sweetmeats, smoking, drinking coffee, watching gypsy girls dance, or listening to the long-winded tales of professional story-tellers.  Almost every day had its regular excursion, and it was clear to me that he always chose the place where on that day of the week there was likely to be the greatest crowd.

Meanwhile Balsamides, in whose house I continued to live, alternately laughed at me for believing Paul’s story, and expressed in the next breath a hope that Alexander might yet be found.  He had been to Santa Sophia, and had ascertained that the other staircase was usually opened on the nights when the mosque was illuminated, for the convenience of the men employed in lighting the lamps, and this confirmed his theory about the direction taken by Alexander when he left the gallery.  But here all trace ceased again, and Balsamides was almost ready to give up the search, when an incident occurred which renewed our energy and hope, and which had the effect of rousing Paul to the greatest excitement.

We were wandering under the gloomy arches of the vast bazaar one day, and had reached the quarter where the Spanish Jews have their shops and collect their wonderful mass of valuables, chiefly antiquities, offering them for sale in their little dens, and ever hungry for a bargain.  We strolled along, smoking and chatting as we went, when a Jew named Marchetto, with whom I had had dealings in former days and who knew me very well, came suddenly out into the broad covered way, and invited us into his shop.  He said he had an object of rare beauty which he was sure I would buy.  We went in, and sat down on a low divan against the wall.  The sides of the little shop were piled to the ceiling with neatly folded packages of stuffs, embroideries, and prayer carpets.  In one corner stood a shabby old table with a glass case, under which various objects of gold and silver were exposed for sale.  The whole place smelled strongly of Greek tobacco, but otherwise it was clean and neat.  A little raised dome in the middle of the ceiling admitted light and air.

Marchetto disappeared for a moment, and instantly returned with two cups of Turkish coffee on a pewter salver, which he deposited on a stool before us.  He evidently meant business, for he began to talk of the weather, and seemed in no hurry to show us the object he had vaguely mentioned.  At last I asked for it, which I would certainly not have done had I meant to buy it.  It proved to be a magnificent strip of Rhodes tapestry, of the kind formerly made for the Knights of Malta, but not manufactured since the last century.  It consists always of Maltese crosses, of various sizes and designs, embroidered in heavy dark red silk upon strips of coarse strong linen about two feet wide, or of the same design worked upon square pieces for cushions.  The value of this tapestry is very great, and is principally determined by the fineness of the stitch and the shade of red in the silk used.

Marchetto’s face fell as we admired his tapestry, for he knew that we would not begin a bargain by conceding the smallest merit to the object offered.  But he put a brave face on the matter, and began to show us other things:  a Giordes carpet, a magnificent piece of old Broussa gold embroidery on pale blue satin, curious embroideries on towels, known as Persian lace, ­indeed, every variety of ancient stuff.  Tired of sitting still, I rose and turned over some of the things myself.  In doing so I struck my elbow against the old glass case in the corner, and looked to see whether I had broken it.  In so doing my eye naturally fell upon the things laid out on white paper beneath the glazed frame.  Among them I saw a watch which attracted my attention.  It was of silver, but very beautifully engraved and adorned in Russian niello.  The ribbed knob which served to wind it was of gold.  Altogether the workmanship was very fine, and the watch looked new.

“Here is a Russian watch, Patoff,” I said, tapping the glass pane with my finger.  Paul rose languidly and came to the table.  When he saw the thing he turned pale, and gripped my arm in sudden excitement.

“It is his,” he said, in a low voice, trying to raise the lid.

“Alexander’s?” Paul nodded.  “Pretend to be indifferent,” I said in Russian, fearing lest Marchetto should understand.

The Jew unclosed the case and handed us the watch.  Paul took it with trembling fingers and opened it at the back.  There in Russian letters were engraved the words ALEXANDER PAULOVITCH, FROM HIS FATHER; the date followed.  There was no doubt about it.  The watch had belonged to the lost man; he had, therefore, been robbed.

“You got this from some bankrupt Pasha, Marchetto?” I inquired.  Everything offered for sale in the bazaar at second hand is said to come from the establishment of a Pasha; the statement is supposed to attract foreigners.

Marchetto nodded and smiled.

“A Russian Pasha,” I continued.  “Did you ever hear of a Russian Pasha, Marchetto?  The fellow who sold it to you lied.”

“He who lies on the first day of Ramazan repents on the day of Bairam,” returned the Jew, quoting a Turkish proverb, and grinning.  I was struck by the words.  Somehow the mention of Bairam made me think of Alexander’s uncertain fate, and suggested the idea that Marchetto knew something about it.

“Yes,” I answered, looking sharply at him; “and another proverb says that the fox ends his days in the furrier’s shop.  Where did you buy the watch?”

“Allah bilir!  I have forgotten.”

“Allah knows, undoubtedly.  But you know too,” I said, laughing, and pretending to be amused.  Paul had resumed his seat upon the small divan, and was listening with intense interest; but he knew it was best to leave the thing to me.  Marchetto was a fat man, with red hair and red-brown eyes.  He looked at me doubtfully for a moment.

“I will buy it if you will tell me where you got it,” I said.

“I got it” ­He hesitated.  “It came out of a harem,” he added suddenly, with a sort of chuckle.

“Out of a harem!” I exclaimed, in utter incredulity.  “What harem?”

“I will not tell you,” he answered, gravely, the smile fading from his face.  “I swore that I would not tell.”

“Will you swear that it really came from a harem?” I asked.

“I give you my word of honor,” asseverated Marchetto.  “I swear by my head, by your beard” ­

“I do not mean that,” I said quietly.  “Will you swear to me, solemnly, before God, that you are telling the truth?”

Marchetto looked at me in surprise, for no people in the world are so averse to making a solemn oath as the Hebrews, as, perhaps, no people are more exact in regard to the truth when so made to bind themselves.  The man looked at me for a moment.

“You seem very curious about that watch,” he said at last, turning away and busying himself with his stuffs.

“Then you will not swear?” I asked, putting the watch back in its place.

“I cannot swear to what I do not know.  But I know the man who sold it to me.  He is the Lala of a harem, that is certain.  I will not tell you his name, nor the name of the Effendi to whose harem he belongs.  Will you buy my watch? ­birindji ­first quality ­it is a beautiful thing.  On my honor, I have never seen a finer one, though it is of silver.”

“Not unless you will tell me where it came from,” I said firmly.  “Besides, I must show it to Vartan in Pera before I buy it.  Perhaps the works are not good.”

“It is yours,” said Marchetto.  “Take it.  When you have had it two days you will buy it.”

“How much?”

“Twenty liras, ­twenty Turkish pounds,” answered the Jew promptly.

“You mean five,” I said.  The watch was worth ten, I thought, about two hundred and thirty francs.

“Impossible.  I would rather let you take it as a gift.  It is birindji ­first quality ­upon my honor.  I never saw” ­

“Rubbish, Marchetto!” I exclaimed.  “Let me take it to Vartan to be examined.  Then we will bargain.”

“Take it,” he answered.  “Keep it as long as you like.  I know you very well, and I thank Heaven I have profited a little with you.  But the price of the watch is twenty pounds.  You will pay it, and all your life you will look at it and say, ‘What an honest man Marchetto is!’ By my head ­it is birindji ­first quality ­I never” ­

“I have no doubt,” I answered, cutting him short.  I motioned to Paul that we had better go:  he rose without a word.

“Good-by, Marchetto,” I said.  “I will come back in a day or two and bargain with you.”

“It is birindji ­by my head ­first quality” ­were the last words we heard as we left the Jew amongst his stuffs.  Then we threaded the subterranean passages of the bazaar, and soon afterwards were walking in the direction of Galata bridge, on our way back to Pera.  At last Paul spoke.

“We are on the scent,” he said.  “That fellow was speaking the truth when he said the watch came from a harem.  I could see it in his face.  I begin to think that Alexander did some absurdly rash thing, ­followed some veiled Turkish woman, as he would have done before if I had not stopped him, ­was seized, imprisoned in some cellar or other, and ultimately murdered.”

“It looks like it,” I answered.  “Of course I would not buy the watch outright, because as long as it is not paid for I have a hold upon Marchetto.  I will talk to Balsamides to-night.  He is very clever about those things, and he will find out the name of the black man who sold it.”

We separated, and I went to find my friend; but he was on duty and would not return until evening.  I spent the rest of the day in making visits, trying to get rid of the time.  On returning to the house of Gregorios I found a letter from John Carvel, the first I had received from him since I had left England.  It ran as follows: ­

MY DEAR GRIGGS:  Since you left us something very extraordinary and unexpected has taken place, and considering the part you took in our household affairs, you should not be kept in the dark.  I have suffered more annoyance in connection with my unfortunate sister-in-law than I can ever tell you; and the thing has culminated in a sort of transformation scene, such as you certainly never expected any more than I did.  What will you say when I tell you that Madame Patoff has suddenly emerged from her rooms in all respects a sane woman?  You will not be any less surprised ­unless Paul has confided in you ­to hear that he asked Hermione to marry him before leaving us, and that Hermione did not refuse him!  I am so nervous that I have cut three meets in the last month.

Of course you will want to know how all this came out.  I do not see how I can manage to write so long a letter as this must be.  But the labor improbus knocks the stuffing out of all difficulties, as you put it in your neat American way.  I dare say I shall survive.  If I do not, the directions for my epitaph are, “Here lies the body of Anne Patoff’s brother-in-law.”  If you could see me, you would appreciate the justice of the inscription.

Madame Patoff is perfectly sane; dines with us, drives out, walks, talks, and reads like any other human being, ­in which she differs materially from Chrysophrasia, who does all these things as they were never done, before or after the flood.  We do not know what to make of the situation, but we try to make the best of it.  It came about in this way.  Hermione had taken a fancy to pay her aunt a visit, a day or two after you had left.  Mrs. North was outside, as usual, reading or working in the next room.  It chanced that the door was left open, or not quite closed.  Mrs. North had the habit of listening to what went on, professionally, because it was her business to watch the case.  As she sat there working, she heard Madame Patoff’s voice, talking consecutively.  She had never heard her talk before, more than to say “Yes,” or “No,” or “It is a fine day,” or “It rains.”  She rose and went near the door.  Her patient was talking very connectedly about a book she had been reading, and Hermione was answering her as though not at all surprised at the conversation.  Then, presently, Hermione began to beg her to come out into the house and to live with the rest of us, since she was now perfectly sane.  Mrs. North was thunderstruck, but did not lose her head.  She probably did the best thing she could have done, as the event proved.  She entered the room very quietly, ­she is always so quiet, ­and said in the most natural way in the world, “I am so glad you are better, Madame Patoff.  Excuse me, Miss Hermione left the door open and I heard you talking.”  The old lady started and looked at her a moment.  Then she turned away, and presently, looking rather white, she answered the nurse:  “Thank you, Mrs. North, I am quite well.  Will you send for Professor Cutter?” So Cutter was sent for, and when he had seen her he sent for me, and told me that my sister-in-law was in a lucid state, but that it would be just as well not to excite her.  If she chose to leave her room she might, he said, but she ought to be watched.  “The deuce!” said I, “this is most extraordinary!” “Exactly,” said he, “most extraordinary.”

The lucid moment lasted, and she has been perfectly sane ever since.  She goes about the house, touching everything and admiring everything, and enjoys driving with me in the dog-cart.  I do not know what to make of it.  I asked Hermione how it began.  She only said that she thought her aunt had been better when she was with her, and then it had come very suddenly.  The other day Madame Patoff asked about Paul, and I told her he had gone to the East with you.  But she did not seem to know anything about you, though I told her you had seen her.  “Poor Paul,” she said, “I should like to see him so much.  He is the only one left.”  She was sad for a moment, but that was all.  Cutter said it was very strange; that her insanity must have been caused in some way by the shock she had when she threw herself out of the window in Germany.  Perhaps so.  At all events she is sane now, and Cutter says she will not be crazy again.  I hope he is right.  She appeared very grateful for all I had done for her, and I believe she has written to Paul.  Queer story, is it not?

Now for the sequel.  Hermione came to me one morning in the library, and confessed that Paul had asked her to marry him, and that she had not exactly refused.  Girls’ ideas about those things are apt to be very inexact when they are in love with a man and do not want to own it.  Of course I said I was glad she had not accepted him; but when I put it to her in that way she seemed more uncertain than ever.  The end of it was that she said she could not marry him, however much she liked him, unless he could put an end to a certain foolish tale which is told against him.  I dare say you have heard that he had been half suspected of helping his brother out of the world.  Was there ever such nonsense?  That was what Chrysophrasia meant with her disgusting personalities about Cain and Abel.  I dare say you remember.  I do not mind telling you that I like Paul very much more than I expected to when he first came.  He has a hard shell, but he is a good fellow, and as innocent of his brother’s death as I am.  But ­they are cousins, and Paul’s mother has certainly been insane.  Of course insanity brought on by an accident can never be hereditary; but then, there is Chrysophrasia, who is certainly very odd.  However, Paul is a fine fellow, and I will think of it.  Mrs. Carvel likes him even better than I do.  I would have preferred that Hermione should marry an out-and-out Englishman, but I always said she should marry the man she loved, if he were a gentleman, and I will not go back on my word.  They will not have much to live on, for I believe Paul has refused to touch a penny of his brother’s fortune, believing that he may yet be found.

But the plot thickens.  What do you suppose Macaulay has been doing?  He has written a letter to his old chief, Lord Mavourneen, who always liked him so much, begging to be sent to Constantinople.  The ambassador had a secretary out there of the same standing who wanted to go to Paris, so the matter was arranged at the Foreign Office, and Macaulay is going out at once.  Naturally the female establishment set up a howl that they must spend the summer on the Bosphorus; that I had taken them everywhere else, and that no one of them could die happy without having seen Constantinople.  The howl lasted a week.  Then I went the way of all flesh, and gave in.  Mrs. Carvel wanted to see Macaulay, Madame Patoff wanted to see the place where poor Alexander disappeared, Hermione wanted to see Paul, and Chrysophrasia wanted to see the Golden Horn and dance upon the glad waters of the joyous Bosphorus in the light caïque of commerce.  I am rather glad I have submitted.  I think that Hermione’s affection is serious, ­she looks ill, poor child, ­and I want to see more of Paul before deciding.  Of course, with Macaulay in one embassy and Paul in another, we shall see everything; and Mary says I am growing crusty over my books.  You understand now how all this has occurred.

Now I want your advice, for you not only know Constantinople, but you are living there.  Do you advise us to come at once and spend the spring, or to come later and stay all summer?  Is there anything to eat?  Must I bring a cook?  Can I get a house, or must we encamp in a hotel?  What clothes does one wear?  In short, tell me everything you know, on a series of post cards or by telegraph, ­for you hate writing letters more than I do.  I await your answer with anxiety, as we shall regulate our movements by what you say.  All send affectionate messages to you and to Paul, to whom please read this letter.

Yours ever, JOHN CARVEL.

I had not recovered from my astonishment in reading this long epistle, when Gregorios came in and sat down by the fire.  His entrance reminded me of the watch, and for the moment banished John Carvel and his family from my thoughts.  I showed him the thing, and told him what Marchetto had said.

“We have him now!” he exclaimed, examining the name and date with interest, though he could not read the Russian characters.

“It is not so sure,” I said.  “He will never tell the name of the negro.”

“No; but we can see the fellow easily enough, I fancy,” returned Balsamides.  “You do not know how these things are done.  It is most probable that Marchetto has not paid him for the watch.  Things of that sort are generally not paid for until they have been sold out of the shop.  Marchetto would not give him a good price for the watch until he knew what it would fetch, and the man would not take a small sum because he believes it to be valuable.  The chances are that the Lala comes from time to time to inquire if it is sold, and Marchetto shows it to him to prove that he has not got any money for it.”

“That sounds rather far-fetched,” I observed.  “Marchetto may have had it in his keeping ever since Alexander disappeared.  The Lala would not wait as long as that.  He would take it to some one else.”

“No, I do not believe so,” said Gregorios thoughtfully.  “Besides, it may not have been brought to the Jew more than a week ago.  Those fellows do not part with jewelry unless they need money.  It is a pretty thing, too, and would attract the attention of any foreigner.”

“How can you manage to watch Marchetto so closely as to get a sight of the man?”

“Bribe the Jew in the next shop; or, still better, pay a hamal to spend his time in the neighborhood.  The man probably comes once a week on a certain day.  Keep the watch.  The next time he comes it will be gone, but Marchetto will not have been paid for it and will refuse to pay the Lala.  There will inevitably be a hubbub and a noise over it.  The hamal can easily find out the name of the negro, who is probably well known in the bazaar.”

“But suppose that I am right, and it is already paid for?” I objected.

“It is very unlikely.  I know these people better than you do.  At all events, we will put the hamal there to watch for the row.  If it does not come off in a month, I will begin to think you are right.”

Gregorios is a true Oriental.  He possesses the inborn instinct of the bazaar.