Make thee an ark of gopher wood,'" quoted the stranger. "'Rooms shalt
thou make in the ark, and thou shalt pitch it within and without with
pitch.'"

"Bitumen, eh?" exclaimed the slim young man. "Where did you get it?"

"Do you ask, you who drill oil at Meidan-i-Naft?"

"As it happens, I don't!" smiled the slim young man.

"At any rate," continued the stranger, after a scarcely perceptible
pause, "let me welcome you on board the Ark." And when the unseen jinni
had made it possible for the slim young man to set foot on the deck of
the barge, the stranger added, with a bow: "Magin is my name--from
Brazil."

If the slim young man did not stare again, he at least had time to make
out that the oddity of his host's light eyes lay not so much in the fact
of their failing to be distinctly brown, gray, or green, as that they
had a translucent look. Then he responded briefly, holding out his
hand:

"Matthews. But isn't this a long way from Rio de Janeiro?"

"Well," returned the other, "it's not so near London! But come in and
have something, won't you?" And he held aside the reed portiere that
screened the door of the deck-house.

"My word! You do know how to do yourself!" exclaimed Matthews. His eye
took in the Kerman embroidery on the table in the centre of the small
saloon, the gazelle skins and silky Shiraz rugs covering the two divans
at the sides, the fine Sumak carpet on the floor, and the lion pelt in
front of an inner door. "By Jove!" he exclaimed again. "That's a
beauty!"

"Ha!" laughed the Brazilian. "The Englishman spies his lion first!"

"Where did you find him?" asked Matthews, going behind the table for a
better look. "They're getting few and far between around here, they
say."

"Oh, they still turn up," answered the Brazilian, it seemed to Matthews
not too definitely. Before he could pursue the question farther, Magin
clapped his hands. Instantly there appeared at the outer door a
barefooted Lur, whose extraordinary cap looked to Matthews even taller
and more pontifical than those of his fellow-countrymen at the oars. The
Lur, his hands crossed on his girdle, received a rapid order and
vanished as silently as he came.

"I wish I knew the lingo like that!" commented Matthews.

Magin waved a deprecatory hand.

"One picks it up soon enough. Besides, what's the use--with a man like
yours? Who is he, by the way? He doesn't look English."

"Who? Gaston? He isn't. He's French. And he doesn't know too m