The success that fell upon John Dean did not delude him. He had been unnerved too young to feel trustful toward life. While everybody called him lucky or blessed by the gods, and prophesied the dizzy heights to which good fortune would carry him, he was, nevertheless, suspicious. Twelve months had gone by since he had secured his position with fine work at Copenhagen. That mission, which from an incident had developed into an important European situation, he had handled in a masterly manner for his years and inexperience. Some men in Fleet Street called him precocious, others, less complimentary and less successful, brazen-faced. Phipps, with whom a warm friendship had grown up, called him "an amazing child," and laughed good-naturedly over the adroitness with which he had got his despatches through ahead of his colleagues. They had met, about mid-June, at Warsaw, whence Phipps was bound for Constantinople to report on the Young Turk party and the revolutions. It was the following Spring when they met again, and greatly to John's delight, Phipps had hunted up Ali, at college in Constantinople, and had brought back news that the finely grown young Turkish gentleman, now a keen follower of Enver Bey, had talked rapturously of John and the early days at Amasia. "You must be one of his gods, Dean, by the way he spoke of you." "We were great friends, I remember. I often wondered if he still recalled me. We have ceased to write--how strange to think he is now a big fellow--he used to be so shy." Phipps had brought a letter for him. Later, in his own room, John had broken the seal and read it. It was a strange epistle, one moment full of the formality of the Orient, and then suddenly passionate, breaking into ornate declarations of eternal friendship. But it was Ali, as of old, and as John read, there were the old scents of that gorge in his nostrils; he could hear the tinkle of the Yeshil Irmak as it ran down, moon-silvered, over the stones, and, as the moon peered into the dark ravine, the distant drone of the drums in the valley. The old thrill was still in his blood. "_O sworn brother, I clasp your hands and look into those wonderful eyes of yours. Still am I Ali, your proud servant, still would I follow you, John effendi. Often I think of you in the night time when the _caiques_ are at rest by the Galata Bridge, and the moon floods the cypress groves. Often I wonder if still that gift of mine is with you. Your friend tells me that you prosper, that you are fair to behold, a leader among men. It is well. I knew this would be, of old. Sad that manhood is upon us and that we hear not the voice of each other. Still in my heart you linger. In time, it may be we meet, and oh, beloved friend, the joy that shall fall upon us, Insh'allah._"