“The London ‘Fleet Street Gazette’ publishes a telegram from its correspondent in Czarigrad which exposes a deep-laid conspiracy on the part of the Jews to possess themselves of Palestine. A concession is on the point of being obtained from the Grand Seignior which authorises the development of the whole country by a Hebrew syndicate, and its colonisation by Jewish immigrants. The intermediary at Czarigrad is understood to have been the Englishman Mortimer, of Thracian notoriety.” Mansfield’s voice dropped when he came to the last word, and he glanced fearfully at Cyril, expecting to find him pained, possibly indignant; but seeing that he was smoking placidly, he took heart of grace. “I expected this. Are you a thin-skinned person, Mansfield?” “I don’t think so--I really don’t know,” stammered Mansfield. “I mean, can you stand being generally cold-shouldered, if not actually cut? Do you yearn for constant communion with your kind?” “I suppose I could stand being sent to Coventry without whining. Is that the sort of thing?” “Exactly. If I am not mistaken, that is the fate which will be meted out to you and me for the next few days. If your spirits are liable to give way under it, you had better go home at once.” “Count!” There was no mistaking the chagrin in the young man’s tone, and Cyril laughed encouragingly. “That’s all right. I only wanted to prepare you for the worst. Well, shall we take a little stroll? If you are anxious to put my powers of prophecy to the proof, we might pay a few visits.”