At the door, he stood aside and ushered us into a parlor furnished in the French style. Off it opened a dining-room. A stout, smooth-faced, elderly man rose from a desk as we entered. He started to salaam, thought better of it, and offered his hand, which Nikka grasped perfunctorily. Then he commenced to speak in the Tzigane dialect, and Nikka cut him off.
"Speak French," said Nikka curtly. "I have no secrets from my friend, Mr. Nash." And to me: "This is Monsieur Kostabidjian."
Kostabidjian bowed to me.
"My poor home is honored, indeed, by two such distinguished guests," he protested. "Monsieur Zaranko, it is many years now since I had the pleasure of meeting you, but you will find that I have executed all your commissions faithfully."
Nikka smiled sarcastically.
"You would not be alive and whole if you had not," he commented.
"Surely, you do not mean that you think I would do anything else," cried Kostabidjian.
"I mean I am sure that you do as I command," returned Nikka impatiently. "Also, that I feel I do not have to rely upon your honesty in the matter. Now, what news have you for me?"
Kostabidjian—he was an Armenian of uncertain parentage, I afterwards discovered, with the ingrained servility pounded into that unfortunate race by centuries of oppression—drew up chairs for us.
"The telegram was forwarded at once to the Chief," he answered. "But Wasso Mikali sent back word yesterday that he would be delayed in waiting upon you in consequence of a caravan of cartridges which the band are running into Albania. It is an affair which has attracted his attention for the past month, and he dares not trust the work to another."