“As you can see,” he replied, “he is no Kurd. He is by birth a German of Constantinople whose father sold pills, but who was forced to leave the city owing to some crime he committed. He had two sons, this Amin Effendi and another. These came to Bagdad, and there did that which was wrong, and had to fly. Fate brought them this way to Halabja, when finding themselves upon the borders of Kurdistan, they feared to go forward, and having no means of going back, threw themselves upon the mercy of the Qazi, and turned Musulman. Uthman Pasha protected this one, and the other one went to the patronage of Shaikh Ali of Tavila, where he now is. They took the names Amin Effendi and Ali Effendi, and are both renowned for the meanness of their nature, their petty intrigues, and their ignorance and idleness. This Amin Effendi professes to be a doctor, but whatever a man or woman may submit to him for cure he has but one remedy, to sell them at a high price the Epsom salts he buys in the bazaar from the Jews. So none go to him, and he lives by the bounty of Lady Adela, who sometimes gives him a suit of clothes and allows him to pretend that he is her doctor.” “He has heard, by the way, that you are a doctor; and as you have been to Europe he will think that you are accomplished, and will use every means in his power to discomfit you, so I warn you to be on your guard against him.” This surprising account I heard with interest and also with some little feeling of apprehension, which, however, left me when I thought how long the individual had been here, and how he must have completely forgotten Europe. Nevertheless, there were certain things he might easily have made the subject of awkward enquiries had he been so disposed. For instance, my box had upon it in large letters, E.B.S., quite a sufficiently remarkable fact for one who knew European characters, and me as Ghulam Husain. Hitherto the initials had raised no comment, for I had ever since Diarbekr kept the trunk in a canvas bag, which made it appear--_en route_--like a bale of goods; but here, to get at something, I had taken it out, and there it stood, an obviously London trunk--obviously English. How truly Mansur had spoken of his mean spirit was proved that very evening. I had eaten my dinner, and was quietly smoking, when a tap came upon the door. Now a Kurd does not know what it is to knock at one’s portal--he either throws it open, or shouts from the other side; and so I knew it must be Amin Effendi. I unlatched the door, and he came in with the air of one who comes surreptitiously upon some errand of importance. As he entered he glanced over his shoulder, and disregarding my invitation to the carpet, sat upon the box, his abba covering it effectually. He began to speak in French, the peculiar nature of which would have rendered intercourse difficult had I not known Kurdish and been able to discount his German accent. [Sidenote: AN EVENING CALL]