The door opened, and a bemuffled object made its appearance. The Vizier rose. The servant withdrew, and the object emerged from its wraps. Rivers knew the man at once. He had met him at Constantinople. It was Count Moranoff.
The Vizier bowed.
The newcomer responded, and then gave a sigh of relief.
"Peste! but it was warm, Vizier," he said. "I am delighted at last to have the honour and the supreme pleasure of meeting you."
"Your Excellency," replied the Vizier, "the fame of Count Moranoff has for long inspired me with an intense wish that we should meet. Allah has at last granted the desire of my life. Will your Excellency seat yourself? Here is coffee alla Turca."
The count drew up his chair, and took the proffered cup. As he lit a cigarette, his eyes travelled appreciatively over the portraits of a dozen Dentons, famous in the service of their country. "It is fitting we should meet here," he said, "surrounded by these illustrious gentlemen, who look on, but cannot move. It is prophetic."
"It is Kismet," said the Vizier gravely.
"Kismet, assisted by two statesmen," returned the Count. "Exactly. But I mustn't lose time, Vizier, as our moments are precious." He put his hand into his breast pocket, and produced a document. "Here is the draft of our understanding, arranged so far as is possible with three thousand versts between us. Now we must discuss the final details. I have indicated my suggestions, and if they meet with your approval it will be possible for us to sign before you leave London."
The Persian watched the smoke rings float upward. "There is no haste," he said. "'Fruit ripens slowly under grey skies,' as our poet sings."