"Well?"

"I wish to see him."

"You can't, then," was the curt answer. "He's at his prayers."

"At what?" Pamela exclaimed.

"At his prayers," the woman repeated brusquely. "There," she added,
throwing open the door which led into the premises behind, "can't you
hear him, poor soul? He's been pinching some more charms from ladies'
bracelets, or something of the sort, I reckon. He's always in trouble.
He goes on like this for an hour or so and then he forgives himself."

Pamela stood by the open door and listened--listened to a strange,
wailing chant, which rose and fell with almost weird monotony.

"Very interesting," she observed. "I have heard that sort of thing
before. Now will you kindly tell Hassan that I wish to speak to him, or
shall I go and find him for myself?"

"Well, you've got some brass!" the woman declared, with a sneer.

"And some gold," Pamela assented, passing a pound note over to the
woman.

"Do you want to see him alone?" the latter asked, almost snatching at
the note, but still regarding Pamela with distrustful curiosity.

"Of course," was the calm reply.