“What the devil have you got here?” asked Michael, with a laugh. “An ammunition factory?”
The antiquity man shrugged his shoulders and smiled.
“I have better than that. I have a Rhages jar for you to look at, if you will come this way.”
A Rhages jar! I don’t suppose Michael had ever until that moment heard of a Rhages jar. However, he followed the antiquity man into another room even more crowded with boxes and tins; and there, to be sure, the Rhages jar was put into his hands. But the place was so dark he could hardly see it.
“If you will excuse me another moment,” said the antiquity man, “I will get a light.”
He was gone, as he said, only a moment. When he came back a servant followed him, carrying a candle—a big porter whom Michael already knew by sight, in baggy blue clothes and a red girdle. Michael nodded to him, and the man salaamed. Then the antiquity man pointed out to Michael, by the light of the candle, the beauties of the Rhages jar. As he did so another man came in, an older man with a grizzled beard. He gravely saluted Michael and took the candle from the porter, who went out. The porter very soon returned, however. This time he carried a tray on which was one of those handleless little cups of Turkish coffee in a holder of filigree silver. The antiquity man set down the Rhages jar.
“Won’t you have a cup of coffee?” he said, making a sign to the porter.
“No, thank you,” replied Michael. That was one thing about Stambul he didn’t altogether like—that eternal sipping of muddy coffee.
“Oh, but just one!” insisted the antiquity man. “Why not?”
“I’ve had one already,” answered Michael. “I’m not used to it, you know. It keeps me awake.”