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ground.”
    “Did you examine the ledge and the shutters?”
    “No.”
    “Has anyone examined them?”
    “Not to my knowledge.”
    Sir Denis stood with his back to me for several moments; then, turning:
    “Go on!” he cried. “You must have derived some other impressions. Had the bed definitely been slept in, for instance?”
    “Yes, undoubtedly.”
    “Was Van Berg armed?”
    “No. His revolver—a heavy service type—was on a table beside his bed. His flash lamp was still under his pillow.”
    “Was he a heavy drinker?”
    I stared uncomprehendingly.
    “On the contrary.”
    Nayland Smith gave me a steely glance.
    “H’m!” he snapped—“amazing! A man, already apprehensive of attack, a man of some experience, wakes to the certain knowledge that there’s an intruder in his room—and what does he do? He springs out of bed, unarmed, in semi-darkness—although a flash lamp and a revolver lie under his hand—and throws himself across the iron box. Really, Greville! Reconstruct the scene for yourself. Was Van Berg’s behaviour, as you indicate it, normal ?”
    “No, sir Denis,” I admitted. “Now that you draw my attention to the curious points, it wasn’t. But—good heavens!” I raised my hand to my forehead.
    “Ah!” said he—“forgotten something else?”
    “Yes—I had. The perfume.”
    “Perfume?”
    “There was a strange perfume in the room. It resembled mimosa…”
    “Mimosa?”
    “Extraordinarily like it.”
    “Where was this smell most noticeable?”
    “About the bed.”
    He snapped his fingers and began to walk up and down again.
    “Naturally,” he murmured. “One small point cleared up… but— mimosa…”
    I watched him in silence, overcome by unhappy recollections.
    “Where is the iron box now?” he suddenly demanded.
    “It’s in my room!” roared a great voice—“and I’m waiting for the swine who murdered Van Berg to come and fetch it!”
    Sir Denis, in his restless promenade, had reached the window— had been staring out of it, as if considering my statement that it was thirty feet above street level. He turned in a flash—so did I...
    Sir Lionel Barton stood in the doorway, and Rima was beside him, a neat, delightful figure in her drill riding kit and tan boots.
    If Rima was surprised to learn the identity of the tall man in shabby gray flannels who now turned and confronted her, I can only describe the chief’s reaction as that of one half stunned. He fell back a pace—his deep-set eyes positively glaring; then:
    “Smith!” he said huskily—“Nayland Smith! Am I dreaming?”
    The grim face of Sir Denis relaxed in that ingenuous smile which stripped him of twenty years.
    “By God!” roared the chief, and literally pounced upon him. “If I were anything like a decent Christian I should say that my prayers had been answered!”

CHAPTER SEVEN

RIMA AND I
    D own in the little garden of the house I had a few moments alone with Rima. At some time this garden had been a charming, secluded spot. Indeed, except for a latticed window above, it was overlooked from only one point: the gallery of the minaret. But neglect had played havoc with the place.
    The orange trees flourished—indeed, were in full blossom—and a perfect cloak of bougainvillea overhung the balcony below the latticed window. But the flower borders were thickets of weeds and a stone cistern in which a little fountain had long ceased to play was coated with slime and no more than a breeding place for mosquitoes.
    “I don’t know what it is about Sir Denis Nayland Smith,” said Rima. “But I have never experienced such a sense of relief in my life as when I came into that room today and found him there.”
    “I know,” I replied, squeezing her reassuringly: “it’s the sterling quality of the man. All the same, darling, I shan’t feel happy until we’re clear of Ispahan.”
    “Nor shall I, Shan. If only uncle weren’t so infernally mysterious. What on earth are we staying on here