ompanion, the man, who is inspired by
the Evil One, has even dared to demand ransom for the slipper from
me!"

Hassan was majestic in his wrath; but his eyes were black with
venomous hatred.

"He has suffered the penalty which the Koran lays down; he has lost
his right hand. But the lord of all evil protects him, else ere
this he had lost his life! Move no closer to that table!"

I started. Either Hassan of Aleppo was omniscient or he had
overheard my whispered words!

"Easily I could slay you where you stand!" he continued. "But to
do so would profit me nothing. This meeting has been revealed to
me. Last night I witnessed it as I slept. Also it has been
revealed to me by Erroohanee, in the mirror of ink, that the slipper
of the Prophet, Salla-'llahu 'ale yhi wasellem! Shall indeed return
to that place accursed, that infidel eyes may look upon it! It is
the will of Allah, whose name be exalted, that I hold my hand, but
it is also His will that I be here, at whatever danger to my
worthless body."

He turned his blazing eyes upon me.

"To-morrow, ere noon," he said, "the slipper will again be in the
Museum from which the man of evil stole it. So it is written;
obscure are the ways. We met last night, you and I, but at that
time much was dark to me that now is light. The holy 'Alee spoke
to me in a vision, saying: 'There are two keys to the case in which
it will be locked. Secure one, leaving the other with him who
holds it! Let him swear to be secret. This shall be the price of
his life!'"

The black tube was pointed directly at my forehead.

"Effendim," concluded the speaker, "place in my hand the key of the
case in the Antiquarian Museum!"

Hands convulsively clenched, the girl was looking from me to Hassan.
My throat felt parched, but I forced speech to my lips.

"Your omniscience fails you," I said. "Both keys are at my bank!"

Blacker grew the fierce eyes--and blacker. I gave myself up for
lost; I awaited death--death by some awful, unique means--with
what courage I could muster.

From the court below came the sound of voices, the voices of
passers-by who so little suspected what was happening near to them
that had someone told them they certainly had refused to credit it.
The noise of busy Fleet Street came drumming under the archway, too.

Then, above all, another sound became audible. To this day I find
myself unable to define it; but it resembled the note of a silver
bell.