“And what was that?”
“He climbed the wall of the Pasha’s garden. There is a fig tree growing close beside it at one place. Someone assisted him to descend on the other. But he had been betrayed; the Nubian mutes took him—and they——”
He bent and whispered in my ear.
“Impossible!” I cried—“impossible! báss! báss!”
“Not so, effendim—nor was that all. After that they——”
“Enough, Hassan, enough!” I cried. “Usbûr!”
Hassan sighed, raising fearful eyes to the minaret.
III
There has been nothing you are likely to disbelieve so far; but now—well, I specified at the beginning—no comments. Let me tell the story in my own way, and you have permission to think what you please.
There was a dance at Shepheard’s that night, and young Forrest rather interfered with my plans again as to one of the members of the English party; I think I have referred to her before? That sent me home in a bad humor—at least not home; for as I was standing over by the Ezbekîyeh Gardens, wondering whether to go along to “Jimmy’s” or not, I formed a sudden determination to go and have a look at the abode of Harûn Pasha instead!