"His tribe are mine. My wish is their wish. How can they refuse?"
"Yes," I insisted, "but how much will they want? Is it safe to tell him all this?"
Nikka's face flushed purple. For a moment I thought he would strike me. Then he turned, and shot a question at the old Gypsy, who replied with an amused grin.
"I did not repeat your second question," said Nikka coldly. "He would not have taken it in good grace even from me. But I did tell him your first. Do you want to know just what his answer was?"
"Yes," I said, "and I say, Nikka, don't be uppish because I don't know the ropes about your damned family. Man dear, this is all new to me!"
Nikka relented at once.
"My fault," he apologized, slightly shamefaced. "This Gypsy complex I told you about plays funny tricks with me. But—" and his grin duplicated Wasso Mikali's—"My uncle's precise answer to your first question was that he would consider 'the spittle of his sister's son ample payment for whatever he could do.' He meant it, too."
CHAPTER XIII
THE ROAD TO STAMBOUL
Wasso Mikali was a very wise man. He questioned Nikka closely concerning our situation, and this was his verdict: