"Oh, come, now," he expostulated. "What do you take me for? We have worked a lot. Betty has a motor-launch her father chartered so they could run up and down the coast on his archæological trips, and we used that to mark down the house where we think the treasure is located."
Nikka and I both forgot our Gypsy stoicism, and hitched forward. We were sitting on the floor; Hugh and Watkins, in recognition of their clean clothes were perched on two packs.
"Have you really got a line on the site of the Bucoleon?" asked Nikka.
"Yes," said Hugh. "Matter of fact, that was comparatively easy, thanks to Vernon King. You see, he knows his Constantinople of old; and after consulting with some other learned Johnnies out at Robert College and several ancient Greeks of the Syllogos, the Historical Society, you know, he was able to point out quite accurately the general site of the Great Palace. When we had gone so far, it became a case of picking out the building within that area that held our prize.
"In that we were helped by knowing that it was occupied by a band of Gypsies, who had lived there a long time. The Phanariots, Greeks of the Syllogos, I mean, picked out the building like a shot. To verify it, we watched it from the street and also from the motor-launch. There isn't any doubt about it. It's in what they call Sokaki Masyeri, a mean little street in a mean quarter that skirts the old sea-walls beyond the railroad tracks.
"This house is built right on the walls. It has a kind of battered magnificence, elaborately carven cornices and window-moldings, and it rambles over a good bit of ground, including a fairish-sized courtyard, just as you would expect of the wreck of an old palace. To be sure, it's no more than a small portion of what was the Palace of the Bucoleon. As Vernon King pointed out, the man who started out to excavate the whole site of the Palace would have to embark in the real estate business on a large scale and work with steam-dredgers."
"And you're positive about all this?" I insisted.
"Oh, lord, yes! There can't be any mistake, Jack. Why, the bird who lives in this house is the king of the Stamboul Gypsies, the chief bad man of Constantinople. He has a whole tribe of cut-throats at his beck and call. Ask anybody here about Beran Tokalji—"
Wasso Mikali leaped to his feet at sound of that name and strode over to us, his hand on his knife.
"What's the row?" inquired Hugh as the old Gypsy and Nikka engaged in a brisk exchange of sibilant phrases.