have no names. What am I to call you,
if I have to speak to you?"

"Anything," said Balsamides. "She does not know the name of the court
physician, I suppose. However, you had better call me by his name. She
might know, after all. Call me Kalopithaki Bey. You are Mehemet Bey.
That is simple enough. Here we are coming to the house; be ready, they
will open the door if they recognize the palace carriage through the
lattice. Of course every one will be up if the old lady is dying, and it
is not much past twelve. The man has driven fast."

The wheels rattled over the pavement, and we drew up before the door of
Laleli's house. We both descended quickly, and Balsamides went up the
broad steps which led to the door and knocked. Some one opened almost
immediately, and a harsh voice--not Selim's--called out,--

"Who is there?"

"From the palace, by order of his Majesty," answered Balsamides,
promptly. I showed myself by his side, and, as he had predicted, the
effect produced by the adjutant's uniform was instantaneous. The man
made a low salute, which we hastily returned, and held the door wide
open for us to pass; closing it and bolting it, however, when we had
entered. I noticed that the bolts slid easily and noiselessly in their
sockets. The man was a sturdy and military Turk, I observed, with
grizzled mustaches and a face deeply marked with small-pox.

We entered a lofty vestibule, lighted by two hanging lamps. The floor
was matted, but there was no furniture of any description. At the
opposite end a high doorway was closed by a heavy curtain. A large
Turkish mangal, or brazier, stood in the middle of the wide hall. The
man turned to the right and led us into a smaller apartment, of which
the walls were ornamented with mirrors in gilt frames. A low divan,
covered with satin of the disagreeable color known as magenta,
surrounded the room on all sides. Two small tables, inlaid with
tortoise-shell and mother-of-pearl, stood side by side in the middle of
the apartment.

"Buyurun, be seated, Effendimlir," said the man, who then left the room.
A moment later we heard his harsh voice at some distance:--

"Selim, Selim! There are two Effendilir from Yildiz-Kioeshk in the
selamlek!"

We sat down to wait.

"The porter is a genuine Turk, and not a Circassian. A Circassian would
have said 'Effendilir,' without the 'm,' in the vocative when he spoke
to us, as he did when he used it in the nominative to Selim."

I reflected t