“I did not sign it, certainly,” he replied. “And what about our treaty?” asked Fitz, eagerly. “There is our treaty--signed,” returned Stratford, with a queer gleam in his eyes as he laid the parchment on the table. “When the Chief gets better he will find that his work was not all in vain, Lady Haigh.” Lady Haigh blushed afterwards to remember that she was ready to kiss Stratford there and then in the first flush of her delight at the news; but she restrained herself sufficiently to do no more than wring his hand without a word. The rest were examining the treaty, which bore Stratford’s signature and another, as well as the King’s seal and that of the Grand Vizier. “But that is not Fath-ud-Din’s signature,” said Kustendjian, who was looking at the parchment from the other side of the table. “No,” said Stratford, drily; “it is Jahan Beg’s.” “Jahan Beg’s?” was echoed, in tones of astonishment. “Yes; he has succeeded Fath-ud-Din as Grand Vizier. You have a good deal to hear; but I should like some dinner first, if there is any going.” “Have you had nothing but meat lozenges all day, Mr Stratford?” asked Fitz, laughing; and every one adjourned to the dining-room, where the dishes, which had been left untasted half an hour before, were still on the table. Everything was cold, of course, and the servants were in despair; but the makeshift meal was the most cheerful that had taken place during the whole sojourn of the Mission in Kubbet-ul-Haj, and when it was over, the party returned to the terrace, and demanded clamorously of Stratford that he should tell his story.