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 reporter—though he was still youthful and unsophisticated enough to call himself special writer—of the Daily Chronicle who in turn, dropping in at Dolly's Chop House for a bite, an hour later, mentioned it to a sandy-haired gentleman—who whistled and snapped his fingers.

Meanwhile, had Sergeant Horatio Pinker transplanted his astral body via the Magic Carpet route a matter of a few thousand miles east and looked, like the Devil in Madrid, through the bulbous, painted dome of the palace at Tamerlanistan, he would have seen the Princess Aziza Nurmahal facing a clamorous, mutinous, sneering mob of courtiers and soldiers and palace officials grouped, respectively, about the black-robed, fur-capped figure of Gulabian, the Armenian treasurer, and Tagi Khan, Master of Horse, resplendent in peach-colored trousers, loose, crimson, silver-embroidered coat, and voluminous turban of cloth-of-gold, with Koom Khan, the commander-in-chief, playing the role of sardonic, mischief-making middleman. From group to group he shifted, with soft words and soft gestures, and he left behind him a spluttering, minatory trail of discontent.

The princess was pale, frightened, nervous. A sob rose to her lips, and the governor of the eastern marches pointed a rude, derisive thumb.

“A well is not to be filled with dewdrops,” he said in a stage whisper, “nor is a turbulent land to be ruled by a woman's tears.”

“As soon drag for the moon reflected in the water,”