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window. Set left of this cupboard was a big table on which lay piled an indescribable litter. There were manuscripts, firearms, pipes, a hat box, a pair of shoes, a large case containing flasks of wine of Shiraz, a big scale map, a beautifully embroidered silk robe, and a fossilised skull.
    On a low stool at the foot of the bed stood the grim green iron box.
    Sir Denis Nayland Smith was standing staring at the box. The chief had thrown himself into an armchair.
    “Greville,” said Nayland Smith, “have you ever explored the mosque over the way?”
    “Yes,” I replied, to his evident surprise. “But I didn’t find that it possessed any features of interest. Does it, Sir Lionel?”
    “According to Smith,” was the reply, “it does!”
    “Had you any special reason for exploring the place?” Sir Denis asked.
    “I had,” I admitted. “I made my way in this morning through a window on the north side. You see, I imagined—it was probably no more than imagination—that I saw someone watching us from there on one occasion—”
    “What occasion?”
    “The inquiry into Van Berg’s death—when Mr. Jean and Captain Woodville were here—”
    “Never mentioned this to me!” the chief began, when:
    “All I wanted to know,” said Nayland Smith rapidly. “Be quiet, Barton.” And now he turned. His face had grown very stern. “I want to make it perfectly clear to you both, that we three, and Rima, and Ali Mahmoud, stand in greater peril of our lives, at this present moment, than any of us has ever been before.”
    “That’s putting it pretty strongly, Sir Denis,” I said, for I recalled other experiences which I had shared with him.
    “Not too strongly,” he replied. “I rarely say what I don’t mean, Greville. But apart from Rima—I sincerely wish she were a thousand miles from Ispahan—there’s a further and a graver consideration. Sir Lionel here—inadvertently, I admit—has stirred up a thing which at this particular stage of world politics is calculated to sway the balance in the wrong direction.
    “I know all the facts, Greville”—he threw a quick glance in my direction—“and I assure you that what I say is true. The blowing up of the tomb of El Mokanna revived the tradition of that minor prophet and brought into unexpected prominence certain living believers of his doctrine, of which accident they were not slow to take advantage. I have the names of several men in Afghanistan, Khorassan, and Persia whom I know to be associated with this movement, whether as legitimate fanatics or seekers after power remains to be seen. But the spread of the thing is phenomenal.”
    The chief had begun to walk up and down the room in that caged-bear fashion of his; and since Nayland Smith was also addicted to promenading in moments of intense thought, the latter checked his own restless movements at the first stride and dropped into an armchair which Sir Lionel had vacated, tugging reflectively at the lobe of his left ear.
    His words had chilled me. All my fears, which throughout had centred around Rima, came to a head now. I had known for more than a week past that our little party was the focus of malignant forces. Now, chance, or divine Providence, had sent us the man best equipped to deal with such a situation. But his words held no comfort.
    “The way in which this cry of ‘El Mokanna’ has swept through the East,” he continued, speaking in his rapid staccato fashion, “points to organisation. Someone has seized this mighty opportunity. Don’t glare at me, Barton. You, and you alone, are responsible for the position in which we find ourselves. Captain Woodville has already told you so, I believe.”
    I don’t think the chief would have remained silent under such treatment from any but Sir Denis. He was certainly glaring, and he continued to glare. But the steely gray eyes met his unfalteringly; and Sir Lionel merely grunted and continued his promenade.
    “Our chief enemy,” Nayland Smith went