Farrell sprang from his crouched position in one swift, fluent motion. Shirkuh, taken cold-footed, could not draw his knife. They crashed to the floor. But once Shirkuh recovered from the surprize of the assault, he was more than a match for Farrell, who was battered, weary from combat, and shaken by the drugged wine. The iron fingers of the Kurd sank into his throat and throttled him. Shirkuh whipped his lithe body aside, avoiding Farrell's frenzied efforts to drive home with his knee. As Farrell's struggles subsided to a futile gasping for breath, the Kurd's hand flashed to his belt and drew a knife---- But before the stroke descended, there was a crash and a splintering of glass. Shirkuh toppled over, felled by a decanter that Antoinette had broken across his head. Farrell gasped, and caught his breath, then slowly dragged himself clear of his enemy. Antoinette, still clutching the neck of the broken decanter, regarded him with terror-widened eyes. Then she gestured toward Shirkuh, who muttered and stirred. Farrell's fingers closed about the hilt of the knife the Kurd had dropped. "Me or him," muttered Farrell. "If you don't want to see it, look the other way." The blade flashed thrice. Farrell wiped the red steel and slipped it into his empty scabbard. Then he sighed wearily and despairingly. "Finish anyway ... they'll miss him ... and no place we can hide him." Antoinette stared at the dark pool that spread across the silken rug. "Can't cut my way out," muttered Farrell. "But you have a chance. Pierre and the _Sûreté_ are on the job--is there any place we could hide that fellow?" Antoinette shook her head. "Nowhere. The pool of the fountain isn't deep enough----" "Never mind the fountain!" interrupted Farrell, as he leaped to his feet. "I have a hunch. We're not quite ready to hang old man Farrell's youngest son!" At the entrance Farrell turned, reassured Antoinette with a gesture, then stalked out into the Garden, chanting a bawdy song in Turki. * * * * * Beside the fountain he found the object of his search: a bemuddled Kurd, and the Eurasian girl who had finally convinced him that the Golden One was best left to the blustering Afghan. "Get us more wine, O Moon of Loveliness," said Farrell with his most engaging smile. He nudged the Kurd. The girl laughed softly. "You look as though she gave you your fill of clawing!" "_Ay, wallah!_" agreed Farrell with a broad grin. Then, as the girl picked up an empty flagon, he said in a low voice to the Kurd, "Brother, you fellows didn't approach _al Asfarani_ the right way." He winked and beckoned. The Kurd clambered to his feet and followed Farrell. They paused at the arched entrance of Antoinette's alcove. "She's in there now," whispered Farrell. "She'll not claw you." Thus encouraged, the Kurd stepped in, Farrell following. "_Ya sitti_," he began, addressing Antoinette. Then he started, seeing the body of Shirkuh.