"What is his name?"
"Balsamides Bey," I answered.
"I have seen him, but I do not know him," said Paul. "Could you give me a letter?"
"It would not be of the slightest use. You can easily make his acquaintance, but it will be a very different matter to get him to help you. He is one of the strangest men in the world. If he takes a fancy to you, he will do anything imaginable to oblige you."
"And if not?"
"If not, he will laugh at you. He is a queer fellow."
"Eccentric, I should think. I am not prepared to be laughed at, but I will risk it, if there is any chance."
"Look here, Patoff," I said. "I have nothing to do this spring, and the devil of unrest is on me again. I will go to Constantinople with you, and we will see what can be done. You are a Russian, and those people will not trust you; your nationality will be against you at every turn. Balsamides himself hates Russians, having fought against them ten years ago, in the last war."
Paul started up in his chair, and stretched out his hand. "Will you really go with me?" he cried in great excitement. "That would be too good of you. Shall we start to-morrow?"
"Let me see,—we must have an excuse. Could you not telegraph to your chief to recall you at once? You must have something to show to Carvel. He will be startled at our leaving so suddenly."