"Does he, himself, go to Albania?"
"No, Monsieur Zaranko. But the starting of the caravan, and the paying of the purchase-price—"
"In advance?"
"Of course."
"Good," said Nikka. "When will he be here?"
"He spoke of to-morrow—"
"Then serve us food, and lead us to a room where we may rest."
The Armenian clapped his hands, and the old man with the whiskers—who was dumb in consequence of having had his tongue cut out in one of the Turkish massacres of the red past—returned and carried word in his own fashion of our wants to the kitchen. Presently we sat down in the dining room to a hot meal of pilaf, with chicken, dough cakes and coffee, which Kostabidjian pressed upon us officiously.
"It has been a hard year for the tribe, Monsieur Zaranko," he purred, rubbing his hands together. "I don't know what they would have done without your aid."
"The subject is not for discussion," rapped Nikka.