Before I go farther let me try and describe him. His peculiarity was that, instead of eyes, he had jewels composed of six precious stones. There was a depth of life and vital light in them that told of the pent-up force of a hundred, or, at least, of ninety-nine generations of Persian magi. They blazed with the splendor of a god-like nature, needing neither tiffin nor brandy and soda to feed their power.
My mind was made up. I addressed him in Gaelic. To my surprise, and somewhat to my confusion, he answered in two words of modern Hebrew. We fell into a polyglot but refined conversation.
"Come and smoke," he said, at length.
Slipping into the office of the hotel, and ascertaining that there was no danger, I followed to his room.
"I am known as Mr. Jacobs," he said. "My lawful name is Abdallah Hafiz-ben-butler-Jacobi."
The apartment, I soon saw, was small,—for India at least,—and every available space, nook, and cranny, were filled with innumerable show-cases of Attleboro' jewelry.
"Pretty showy?" he remarked familiarly. "I am a drummer."
"My name is Peter Briggs," I replied. "I am a correspondent of the Calcutta Jackal."
"My star!" he said. "That is the dog-star. A sudden thought strikes me," he added. "Let us swear an eternal friendship."