"I did. I took revenge on you for recognizing me by tormenting you as far as I dared. Dear old boy, I knew you'd see me through to the end, bitter or sweet!"
"Which was it?" I inquired.
"Mixed. The girl riled me, rather, so much so that I definitely decided it would be fair play to make use of her as a cat's-paw. But it depends on you, whether she's to lose or win her bet."
"If she loses, I get her hat. If she wins, I've engaged myself to procure for her—your green turban."
"Did you think you could, without my consent?"
"No. I distinctly thought I couldn't. But I would have been willing to bet the head in the turban, served up on a charger, so sure I was that you'd refuse to come near her. I thought I knew you au fond, you see."
"You do. I haven't changed. But—circumstances have changed. And that brings me near to the stage of this business which concerns you and me. First, before I go further though, I'll tell you a part of the reason why I'm sporting the green turban. There's been the dickens to pay here, about a new street that had to be made; an immensely important and necessary street. Well, they couldn't make it, because the tomb of a popular saint or sheikh was in the way. To move the body or even disturb a saint's tomb would mean no end of a row. You remember or have read enough about Mohammedans to know that. What to do, was the question. Nobody'd been able to answer it till yesterday, when the sight of me reminded them of a trick or two I'd brought off some time ago, by disguising myself and hanging about the cafés. They wanted me to try it again. Consequently Captain A. Fenton received a telegram and had to leave Cairo at once on business. He gave up his room at Shepheard's, and the only regrettable thing to the official mind is, that the fellow'd been seen about town even for an hour. However, it couldn't be helped. Luckily Ahmed Antoun is not unknown in Cairo cafés. He's made quite an impression upon the public on several occasions since his pilgrimage to Mecca, two years ago. And since yesterday afternoon, he's been drinking enough coffee to give him jaundice, while casually spreading the story of a dream he had. Our friend the Hadji related how he had slept in the mosque of Ibn Tulun after the noon hour, and dreamed of the sheikh whose tomb is so inconveniently placed. In the dream, the saint clamoured to have his tomb moved on account of a bad smell of drainage which he considers an insult to his own memory. Also dogs have taken to howling round his resting-place at night, and you know that to the true believer a dog is an unclean animal. Except for hunting purposes, or watch-dogging in various branches, good Mohammedans class dogs and Christians together in their mind. Well, already the Hadji's dream is working like yeast. The news of it is being carried from one café to another; and I hope that a few more nights' work will do the trick. The votaries of the saint will get up a petition to have his body moved. When it has found another abode, the making of the new thoroughfare will be suggested."
"Very neat! I see it all, except the connection with Miss Gilder. What has your saint got to do with her?"
"Very little, I should say, by the look in her eyes. But though a green turban's as good as an heirloom, and extorts respect wherever it goes, even a Hadji may have jealous detractors. I have mine. Another green turban in this town, whose genuineness is doubted for some obscure reason or other, has sneered at my dream."
"I say! That sounds as if you might be in danger. If one man suspects you to-day, to-morrow———"