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for?”
    “I know no more than you do, Rima. What was the object of this afternoon’s expedition? I’m quite in the dark about it!”
    “I’m nearly as bad,” she confessed. “But at least I can tell you where we went. We went to Solomon Ishak. You know—the funny old jeweller?”
    “Solomon Ishak is one of the greatest mysteries of Ispahan. But I understand he gets hold of some very rare antique pieces. Probably the chief is negotiating a deal.”
    “I don’t think so. I had to take along the negatives of about forty photographs, and uncle left me wandering about that indescribable, stuffy shop for more than an hour while he remained locked in an inner room with old Solomon.”
    “And what became of the photographs?”
    “He had them with him but brought them out at the end of the interview. They are back here now.”
    “That may explain the mystery,” I said reflectively. “The photographs were of the relics of the Prophet, I take it?”
    Rima nodded.
    “The workmanship on the hilt of the sword has defied even the chief’s knowledge,” I added. “He probably wanted Solomon Ishak’s opinion but didn’t care to risk taking the sword itself.”
    Rima slipped a slender bare arm about my neck and snuggled her head down against my shoulder.
    “Oh, Shan!” she whispered. “I have never felt so homesick in my life.”
    I stooped and kissed her curly hair, squeezing her very tightly; then:
    “Rima, darling,” I whispered, my lips very close to one halfhidden ear, “when we get to some place a little nearer civilisation, will you come and see the consul with me?”
    She made no reply but hid her face more closely against me.
    “If the chief still insists on a spectacular wedding, that can come later. But…”
    Rima suddenly raised her face, looking up at me.
    “Next time you ask me, I’m going to say, Yes, Shan. But please don’t ask me again until we’re out of Ispahan.”
    “Why?” I asked blankly. “Is there any special reason for this?”
    “No,” she replied, kissed me on the chin, and nestled down against me again. “But I’ve promised. And if you are good you’ll be satisfied.”
    I stooped and nearly smothered her with kisses. I suppose my early training was to blame, and I didn’t know, or even seek to find out, Rima’s views upon the subject. As for the chief, I had known for a long time past that he was thoroughly enjoying the situation.
    Had Rima and I openly become lovers, I am convinced he wouldn’t have turned a hair. He was a wonderful old pagan, and his profound disrespect for ritual in any form had led to some awkward moments—awkward, that is, for me, but apparently enjoyed by Sir Lionel.
    And at the moment that these thoughts were crossing my mind his great voice came from the window above:
    “Break away. there!” he roared. “There’s more serious work afoot than making love to my staff photographer!”
    I jumped up—my blood was tingling—and turned angrily. But in the very act I met Rima’s upcast glance. My mood changed. She was convulsed with laughter; and:
    “The old ruffian!” she whispered.
    “Come hither, my puritan friend,” Sir Lionel continued. “Two cavaliers would have speech with thee!”

CHAPTER EIGHT

“EL MOKANNA!”
    A conference took place in the chief’s room at the end of the long corridor on the first floor of that queer old house.
    The place was untidy as only Sir Lionel could make it. There were riding boots on the bed, and strewn about on the floor were such diverse objects as a battered sun helmet, a camera case, odd items of underwear, a pair of very ancient red leather slippers, a number of books—many of them valuable; the whole rising in a sort of mound towards an old cabin trunk, from which one would assume as by an eruption they had been cast forth.
    There was a long, high window on the right through which I could see sunshine on the yellow wall of the Ghost Mosque. A low, shallow cupboard occupied the space below this