His glance roved about the room appraisingly. Walking to
a beautifully carved Arab cabinet he rearranged three pieces of
Persian copperware which stood upon it. He moved several
cushions, and taking up a leopard skin which lay upon the floor
he draped it over an ebony chair which was inlaid intricately
with ivory.
The drooping eyelids of M. Agapoulos drooped lower, as returning
to the centre of the room he critically surveyed the effect of
these master touches. At the moment he resembled a window-
dresser, or, rather, one of those high-salaried artists who
beautify the great establishments of Regent Street, the Rue de la
Paix, and Ruination Avenue, New York.
Hassan lighted the sixth lamp, muttering smilingly all the time.
He was about to depart when Agapoulos addressed him in Arabic.
"There will be a party down from the Savoy tonight, Hassan. No
one else is to come unless I am told. That accursed red
policeman, Kerry, has been about here of late. Be very careful."
Hassan saluted him gravely and retired through one of the draped
openings. In his hand he held the taper with which he had
lighted the lamps. In order that the draperies should not be
singed he had to hold them widely apart.
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