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An Irani servant entered the lounging chamber in the home of Abdulla Pasha.

"Master," he announced in a soft, musical voice, "six men stand in the anteroom."

The Pasha glanced up idly from his kalyan. His face was not good to look upon. "What is their desire?" he growled sullenly.

"They wish audience with you, most noble Sahib."

"Do you know them?"

"Yes—five, but the sixth is a stranger. He appears a man of common birth by his dress, but his face contradicts his attire. Master, I await your instructions," and the Irani saluted.

"I will speak with them," snapped the Pasha shortly. His face bore a scowl, but it had vanished when the curtains parted to admit the six visitors.

"Peace be unto you," he murmured by way of salutation.

"And to you also," was the reply.

"I trust you find the market good," smiled the Pasha amiably.

"As good as can be expected," returned Jeevanjee Kadir, the burly-looking creditor, "but 'tis not to discuss spot nor future but past business that we bore Berenice of Constantine