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Page 59
"How much?"
"One pound.... Two," he added, as she shook her head.
"Four," she demanded.
It was maddening to haggle, but it would be worse to yield.
"Two--and this," said Billy, drawing out the gold and some silver
with it.
She gave a frightened upward glance at the windows over them and
stepped closer. "I take it," she said. "Listen--" and that was all
that Billy could understand of the swift words she whispered to him.
"Slower--slower," he begged. "Once more--slower."
She frowned, and then, very slowly and distinctly, she articulated,
"_T'�la lil genaina ... 'end eltura_."
He wrote down what he thought it sounded like. "Go on."
"_Allailade_," she continued.
"That's to-night," he repeated. "What else?"
"_Ass�a 'ashara_," she added hurriedly, and then, intelligible
again, "Now, quick, the money."
"Hold on, hold on." He was in despair. "Go over that again, please,"
and hastily the girl whispered the words again and he wrote down his
corrections. Then with a flourish he appeared to finish the sketch
and held out the gold and silver to her, saying, "Thank you,"
carelessly.
Quick as a flash she seized the money, leaving a little crumpled
ball of white linen in his hand, and then, apparently by lightning,
she secreted the gold, and with the silver shining in her dark palm
she came closer to him, urging him for another shilling, another
shilling for having a picture made. In an undertone she demanded,
"Is it yes? Shall I say yes to the lady?"
"Yes, yes, yes," said Billy, desperately, to whatever the unknown
message might be. "Take a note to her for me?" he demanded, starting
to scribble one, but she drew back with a quick negation, and as a
sound came from the palace she slipped back through the door and was
gone like a shadow when a blind is thrown open.
Only the crumpled little ball of linen remained in Billy's hand. He
straightened it out. It was a lady's handkerchief, a dainty thing,
delicately scented. In the corners were marvels of sheer embroidery
and among the leaves he found the initial he was seeking. It was the
letter B.
As he stared down on it, that tiny, telltale initial, his face went
white under its tan and his mouth compressed till all the humor and
kindliness of it were lost in a line of stark grimness. And then he
swung on his heel and packed up his painting kit in a fury of haste,
and with one last, upturned look at those mocking windows, he was
off down the road like a shot.
There were just two things to do. The first was to discover the
message hidden in those unknown words.
The second was to do exactly as that message bade.
CHAPTER XI
OVER THE GARDEN WALL
Two oil lamps flared in the little coffee-house. In one circle of
yellow light two bearded Sheiks were playing dominoes with
imperturbable gravity; the other lamp flickered over an empty table
beneath which the thin, flea-bitten legs of a ragged urchin were
showing in the oblivion of his tired sleep. In the shadow beyond sat
a young American with a keen, impatient face, and a one-eyed Arab
shrouded in a huge burnous.
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