“Half persuaded by such insistence, I followed my friend to a house where, seated in the midst of commentaries upon the law, of metal boxes containing the shameful secrets of great families and the record of their indebtedness, sat an elderly man, whose face reminded me, I know not why, of a vulture.
“‘I have brought you, Kazib,’ said he, ‘a client. You will recognize him, I think.’
“‘I do, indeed,’ said the Scrivener, rising gravely and bowing to me. ‘He is no less than My Lord the Councillor Mahmoud.’
“‘The title is superfluous now,’ said I a little sadly.
“The Scrivener, however, continued to give it to me in his great courtesy, and when my friend had left us together, I poured out my story. As the more important details fell from my lips my host jotted them down upon a small tablet with a fine quill that he carried. When I had concluded he spoke as follows:
“‘Such a case as yours would appear first in the Court of Sweetmeats.’
“‘Of Sweetmeats?’ said I.
“‘It is an old term,’ said he. ‘We love these historic traditions.’
“‘Exactly,’ I answered humbly.
“‘Well, it would appear, I say, in the Court of Sweetmeats.’