On the way to the crooked, break-neck street my
thoughts went racing through my head. On one side,
perhaps, a tap on the shoulder in the middle of the
night; half a yard of catgut in the hands of a Bashi-
Bazouk; an appeal to our consul, with the consciousness
of having meddled with something that did not
concern me. On the other a pair of tear-stained,
pleading eyes. Not my eyes--not the eyes of anybody
that I knew--but the kind that raise the devil
even in the heart of a staid old painter like myself.

Joe followed, with downcast gaze. He, too, was
scheming. He could not protest before the prince,
nor before Yusuf. That would imply previous
knowledge of the danger lurking in the vicinity of
the old wall. His was the devil and the deep sea.
Not to tell the prince of Yuleima's whereabouts,
after their combined search for her, and the fees the
prince had paid him, would be as cruel as it was disloyal.
To assist in Mahmoud's finding her would
bring down upon his own head--if it was still on his
shoulders--the wrath of the chief of police, as well
as the power behind him.

Once under the shadow of the wall, the trap unpacked,
easel and umbrella up, and water-bottle
filled, Joe started his windmill, paused at the third
kotow, looked me straight in the eye, and, with a tone
in his voice, as if he had at last come to some conclusion,