I was lifted out of my perfumed couch and set upon my feet. Having been allowed to stand for a while until the effects of remaining so long in a constrained position had worn off, I was led forward into some extensive building. Marble pavements were beneath my feet, fountains played, and the air was heavy with burning ambergris. I was placed with my back to a pillar and bound there, but not harshly. The bandage about my head was removed. I stared around me. A magnificent Eastern apartment met my gaze--a great hall open on one side to the desert. Out upon the sands I could see a group of men who had evidently been my captors and my guards. The one who had unfastened the silk scarf I could not see, but I heard him moving away behind the pillar to which I was bound. Stretched upon a luxurious couch before me was a woman. If I were to seek to describe her I should inevitably fail, for her loveliness surpassed everything which I had ever beheld--of which I had ever dreamed. I found myself looking into her eyes, and in their depths I found all that I had missed in life, and lost all that I had found. She smiled, rose, and taking a jewelled dagger from a little table beside her, approached me. My heart beat until I felt almost suffocated as she came near. And when she bent and cut the silken lashing which bound me, I knew such rapture as I had hitherto counted an invention of Arabian poets. I was raised above the joys of common humanity and tasted the joy of the gods. She placed the dagger in my hand. "My life is thine," she said. "Take it." And clutching at the silken raiment draping her beautiful bosom, she invited me to plunge the blade into her heart! The knife dropped, clattering upon the marble pavement. For one instant I hesitated, watching her, devouring her with my eyes; then I swept her to me and pressed upon her sweet lips the thousand and first kiss.... (NOTE.--The manuscript of Saville Grainger finishes here.) The Turquoise Necklace I "He is the lord of the desert, Effendi," declared Mohammed the dragoman. "From the Valley of Zered to Damascus he is known and loved, but feared. They say"--he lowered his voice--"that he is a great _welee_, and that he is often seen in the street of the attars, having the appearance of a simple old man; but in the desert he is like a bitter apple, a viper and a calamity! Overlord is he of the Bedouins, and all the sons of the desert bow to Ben Azreem, Sheikh of the Ibn-Rawallah." "What is a _welee_, exactly?" asked Graham. "A man of God, Effendi, favoured beyond other men." "And this Arab Sheikh is a _welee_?" "So it is said. He goes about secretly aiding the poor and afflicted, when he may be known by his white beard----" "There are many white beards in Egypt," said Graham. But the other continued, ignoring the interruption: