"Two months!--then you will know Therapia--lovely Therapia! We took a bungalow there for two months each year. I have a cousin at the Embassy. We had a delightful time--nights on the Bosphorus, gay little parties embarking in _caiques_, sunset beyond Therapia, the house parties at Buyukdereh. Oh, it was enjoyable, but to think now--Piccadilly, Oxford Circus, Henley week--days in Surrey!--there's no place like England." With a boyish gesture of delight, he pinched his wife's arm who laughed gaily in response. "We are now going to leave you to talk business," she said, rising. "I am sure Mrs. Dean is tired and wants to go to bed, and we two will have a busy day tomorrow." And with that the two women said good-night. When they were gone, Dean and Price sat smoking for a time. "Come on to the verandah," said Price, leading the way. "The moon will be up soon, and moonrise here is one of the wonders of Asia." They seated themselves in low wicker chairs. It was so dark that it was impossible to distinguish anything clearly. There was a sound of running water, and a muffled roar came back on the wind from the place where the river leapt its weirs down in the gorge. Price's cigarette glowed red in the darkness with each draw he took. The air was perfumed and warm. There was something in the atmosphere which made the senses very acute. It seemed as if one was waiting for something to happen--the singing of the stream, the wandering breeze, the perfume and the impenetrable darkness were all a prelude to the first act of an unknown drama. The silence grew so oppressive that Dean felt he would have to speak or cry out. He was about to force a remark to his lips when his host suddenly sat erect, intently listening, his face turned towards the valley. "Listen!" he said after a pause. "Can you hear anything?" Even as he spoke, the other man heard a subdued sound. It was borne on a wind which died down, but gradually its note was more insistent, deepening in tone until it seemed to make the darkness tremble. As Dean listened, he experienced a strange thrill creeping over him. There was something so weird, so redolent of the strange land in that music as it was borne along the gorge and gave expression to the mystery of the night. Such a sound it was as had been heard many centuries ago when the invading Turkish hordes had swept over the land. Those drums had heralded the approach of Timur the Terrible on his devastating march across Asia, leaving a track of blood behind, his name sending terror in advance of his ruthless army. The drum now throbbing down the gorge had the same barbaric note, the same sinister significance, and as Charles Dean listened he knew that this city of old Asia had never changed from the days when the Seljuk sultans ruled or Haroun-al-Raschid kept his court in Baghdad.