"Ah, I have it—an opium den."
"No."
"Deuce. I give in—maybe you have turned Mussulman and spend your time at the mosque."
"No. I am still a good Christian—I hope."
"Well, it is beyond me and it seems that I am not to win that five francs—well, we will see."
"Yes," said Karasloff, laughing, "we will see."
They reached the gates and passed through to the great boulevard cutting the town north and south.
Leading the way, Karasloff turned from the boulevard down a street narrow and roofed with the blue evening sky, less a street than a bazaar, where the stalls exposed all sorts of merchandise for sale, pottery, oriental stuffs, carpets, pipe-stems and oriental tobacco, Arab gums faked and made in Paris, Rahat Lakhoum, scent.
Before one of these shops that exposed oriental stuffs and carpets for sale Karasloff paused, then, glancing up and down the street to make sure that there were no other légionnaires about, he entered, followed by Jacques.
El Kobir was the name of the merchant who owned the premises; he was seated amongst his wares engaged in mending a rug; around him lay bales of rugs just arrived and filling the air with a vague perfume, the very fume of the East, calling up the bazaars of Samarkand and the looms of Persia.