“I should say that you had described him exactly,” said Charlie. “He is a peculiar product of centuries of contact between European and Eastern diplomacy, and he is particularly slippery. He is a Levantine Greek, and his name is Karalampi.” “Oh, I have heard Azim Bey talk of him,” said Cecil. “He told me he taught him French.” “I think Azim Bey may be very thankful that he has got into other hands,” said Charlie. “Why?” asked Cecil. “Well, one hears a good deal about Karalampi which one doesn’t care to repeat, but I can tell you what he is. The Pasha employs him as a spy on the various consulates, and the consulates use him as a spy on the Pasha and on each other. How he contrives to play them all off against one another I don’t know, but I suppose he gives each employer his turn. He used to be attached to the French Consulate, but no doubt his present position is more lucrative. He does people’s dirty work for them. Of course he is not officially employed by any one, but if you could question Sir Dugald you would find out that more than once M. Karalampi had furnished important information in the nick of time and had been suitably rewarded.” “I don’t believe it,” said Cecil, indignantly. “Who told you?” “Azevedo, the old Jewish banker, a great crony of mine. Most of my friends are Jews, Turks, infidels, or heretics, somehow.” “Well, one can never tell what people will pride themselves upon,” said Cecil, looking away. “But such a choice of friends----” “I never said I was proud of it,” he said, quickly. “No, your tone said it for you,” said Cecil; “it implied that it was original and uncommon to have such a circle of acquaintances. But if you are so fond of Jews, why don’t you get to know Dr Yehudi?” “What, the fat old padre down in the town?” “Yes; you seldom have him here on Sundays, because he knows so many more languages than Mr Schad, and so does more mission-work. He can speak an extraordinary number of modern dialects, and knows Syriac and Chaldee and all the old languages as well.” “Oh, I have heard them talking of him at Azevedo’s. To mention his name there is like waving a red rag before a particularly furious bull. And so he is one of those expensive people, converted Jews? You know it costs, they say, a thousand pounds to convert one Jew. I should like to see one. I’ll go and look him up.” “I hope you will,” said Cecil, quietly. Charlie looked at her a moment to discover whether she was angry with his speech. “Don’t you mind my saying that about the thousand pounds?” he asked. “Why should I?” said Cecil. “Can you say that a soul, whether Dr Yehudi’s or any one else’s, is not worth so much? But when you know him, you will be better able to judge for yourself.” CHAPTER IX. LITERATURE AND POLITICS. “I have made the acquaintance of your old friend,” Charlie said to Cecil a few Sundays after this conversation. “Oh, you mean Dr Yehudi,” said she. “How do you like him?”