er and the number on the door. Clearly, it was 5022, unless they had
mistaken threes for twos. The only difference between the two numbers
was an extra squiggle in the upper line of the three. He checked the
letter again. No, they were twos. He said so. "This is the number on the
letter."

"You let me see, please?" Hassan asked.

"Sure, Hassan."

The dragoman took the letter and examined it. He chuckled. "_Samehni, ya
sidi._ That mean excuse, sir. Small mistake. You reading backward.
Number is 2205."

"But how can that be?" Rick asked. "Arabic goes backward from English."

"Maybe so with words," Hassan said. "But numbers not so. This number is
2205. You want to go?"

Rick sighed. "I learn something new every day. Okay, Hassan. You're the
dragoman."

The little car swung around and sped back the way they had come, into a
better part of the city. In a short time Hassan slowed and began
searching. At last he pulled to the curb, in front of a large house of
Victorian design. "Here is 2205," he announced.

The boys got out and saw immediately that the house was in darkness. Not
a light shone anywhere.

"No one home," Rick said, disappointed.

Scotty surveyed the dark structure. "Funny. A house this size must have
servants. There should be a light somewhere. Maybe around back?"

"I doubt it, but we can take a look."

Hassan's voice stopped them. "Something wrong, I think."

"What do you mean?" Rick asked quickly.

Hassan gestured to where a small group of people had gathered on the
other side of the street. "Why they stop? Not so strange for car come to
house like this."

That was true, Rick thought. The people stood quietly, watching, and in
a moment two others joined them. Their attitude was not simple
curiosity.

"Can you ask them what's up?" Scotty asked.

"Will try." Hassan took a step toward the group and called cheerfully in
Arabic. No one answered. He walked toward them, still talking
cheerfully, and the little group melted instantly into ordinary people
walking the street on their various errands by ones and twos.

Rick needed no interpreter for their actions. Rather than answer a
courteous, cheerful question from Hassan they had hurried off, as though
afraid of something. But what?

"Pretty strange, I think," Hassan said. "I just ask who can tell me
where to find Fuad Moustafa, and they go."

Scotty had been staring at the house. He walked to the steps and stared
into the darkness, then we