"What is that?" asked the Pasha, as Shaban held it out.
"A pistol, my Pasha. Zümbül Agha told me you wanted it."
The Pasha laughed curtly.
"Zümbül made a mistake. What I want is a shovel, or a couple of them. Can you find such a thing without asking anyone?"
"Yes, my Pasha," replied the Albanian promptly, laying the revolver on the steps and disappearing again. And it was not long before he was back with the desired implements.
"We must dig a hole, somewhere, Shaban," said his master in a low voice. "It must be in a place where people are not likely to go, but not too far from the kiosque."
Shaban immediately started toward the trees at the back of the house. The Pasha followed him silently into a path that wound through the wood. A nightingale began to sing again, very near them—the nightingale, thought the Pasha.
"He is telling us where to go," he said.
Shaban permitted himself a low laugh.
"I think he is telling his mistress where to go. However, we will go too." And they did, bearing away to one side of the path till they came to the foot of a tall cypress.