But, unfortunately, Professor Howard White had been obliged to ride out to the mounds with Said Bey, on account of an accusation which had been brought against him of desecrating a native cemetery in their vicinity in the course of his observations, and Azim Bey, disdaining the services of the meek Syrian assistant who offered to show him the instruments, came and sat down on the terrace with Cecil and her hostess and interrupted their talk. It was impossible to speak of Charlie and of Whitcliffe in his presence, and an awkward silence, broken by spasmodic attempts at conversation, fell on the three. It was a relief when one of the servants appeared and told Mrs Howard White that there was a man selling European cutlery and needles in the courtyard, asking whether she would like to have him brought in. “Oh, if you please, madame, let him come in,” entreated Azim Bey, his usual vivacity returning. “Mademoiselle lost her scissors yesterday, and I have broken my knife, and I want a new one. May the pedlar come in?” “Oh, certainly. Bring the man in, Habib,” said Mrs Howard White to the servant, and she moved towards the verandah, where there was a table. Presently the pedlar entered, escorted in by two or three of the servants, and by an assistant of his own, who helped to carry his boxes. The two men were in Armenian costume, with high black caps, which marked them as coming from Persia, and they spoke Arabic with the peculiar Persian intonation. When their boxes were opened, the stock-in-trade displayed was so extensive that Azim Bey went into raptures, and his delight even blinded him to the combination of the two obnoxious nationalities, the hated Persian and the despised Armenian, in the persons of the traders. Not less attracted were Um Yusuf and the rest of the women, and while Azim Bey chatted eagerly to the pedlar’s servant over the array of pocket-knives, they gathered round the other box and coveted endless pairs of scissors. “See, mademoiselle,” said Um Yusuf, taking up a fanciful little needlecase in the shape of a butterfly, “this is a pretty thing. Why not Azim Bey buy it for Basmeh Kalfa? Look, it open, like this.” “Stay, O my mistress,” interrupted the pedlar; “why shouldest thou spoil my wares? Let thy lady hold it, and I will show her how to open it.” Um Yusuf put the case into Cecil’s hands, and the vendor raised the flap to show the needles inside. As he did so, his hands met Cecil’s with a peculiar pressure. Startled, she looked into his eyes, and in spite of dyed skin, shaven hair and moustache, recognised Charlie in the Armenian pedlar. The shock was overpowering, and she dropped helplessly on the divan, too much astonished even to cry out. A deadly faintness was stealing over her, the figures around seemed to be whirling in a rainbow-coloured mist, but two words from Charlie brought her back to her senses.