The Lighted Match

Over the Pera roofs swept flocks of crows to roost in their garden

rookeries at the center of the town. Across the harbor water, now too

gloomy to reveal its thousands of jelly-fish, drifted the complaining

cries of the loons. Then as the occasional city lamps began to twinkle,

making the darkness murkier by their inadequacy, there arose from the

twisting ways of Pera, Galata and Stamboul the night howling of thirty

thousand dogs.

At length Martin held up the dial of his watch to the uncertain light.

"I must be off," he announced. "Jusseret is waiting at the Pera Palace.

Don't fail us at seven-thirty."

The tireless features of Abdul Said Bey once more shaped themselves

into a deliberate smile. "Of a surety, Effendi. May your virtues ever

find favor in the sight of Allah."

For a moment the pig-like eyes followed the well-knit figure of the

Englishman as it went swinging along the street. Then the Turk turned

and lost himself in the darkness.

The Pera Palace Hotel stands in the European quarter of the town. To its

doors your steps are guided by a trail of shop signs in English, French,

German and Greek, among which appear only occasional characters in the

native Arabic.

Almost immediately after Cara, Pagratide and Benton had seated

themselves in the dining-room that evening, Arab servants secluded a

corner table, close to their own, behind mushrabieh screens. The party

for whom this distinguished aloofness had been arranged made its

entrance through an unseen door, but the voices indicated that several

were at table there. The waiter who served this table apart might have

testified that one was an Englishman, wearing in addition to European

evening dress the native tarboosh, or fez. Also, that against his

white shirt-front glittered the Star of Galavia. The second diner wore

one of the many elaborate uniforms that signify Ottoman officialdom. His

eyes were small and pig-like, and as he talked no feature or gesture at

the table beyond escaped his appraising scrutiny.

There was one other behind the mushrabieh screens. The niceties of his

dress were Parisian, punctilious, perfect. In his right lapel was the

unostentatious button of the Legion d'Honneur.

The Englishman spoke. "Much of your story, Monsieur Jusseret, is

familiar to me. It will, however, prove interesting in toto, I

daresay, to our friend Abdul Said Bey, whom Allah preserve."

There was a murmur of compliment from the Turk, adding his assurance of

interest, and the Frenchman took up the thread of his narrative.

"We supposed that Karyl was dead--the Throne of Galavia clear for

Delgado. Alas, we were in error!" The speaker shook his head in deep

regret, as, turning to Martin, he added: "It was a pardonable mistake. Let us hope the announcement was merely

premature." He lifted his wine-glass with the air of one proposing a

toast. "It becomes our duty to make that statement true. Messieurs,

our success!"