The woman looked at her in a peculiar fashion.
"Well?"
"I wish to see him."
"You can't, then," was the curt answer. "He's at his prayers."
"At what?" Pamela exclaimed.
"At his prayers," the woman repeated brusquely. "There," she added, throwing open the door which led into the premises behind, "can't you hear him, poor soul? He's been pinching some more charms from ladies' bracelets, or something of the sort, I reckon. He's always in trouble. He goes on like this for an hour or so and then he forgives himself."
Pamela stood by the open door and listened—listened to a strange, wailing chant, which rose and fell with almost weird monotony.
"Very interesting," she observed. "I have heard that sort of thing before. Now will you kindly tell Hassan that I wish to speak to him, or shall I go and find him for myself?"
"Well, you've got some brass!" the woman declared, with a sneer.
"And some gold," Pamela assented, passing a pound note over to the woman.