long pause between the second and third knocks, and then again three times in rapid succession.
It was as if the ramshackle old house were listening in its sleep, then slowly awakening. Came the scratch of a match, a thin, light ray drifting through the cracks in the shutters, a shuffling of slippered feet, and the door opened.
A man stood there, old, immensely tall, immensely fat, an Afghan judging from his black silk robe and his oiled locks, holding a candle in his right hand.
He peered at the two figures in front of him. Then he broke into high-pitched laughter and gurgling words of greeting.
"Thorneycroft! Thorneycroft, by the Prophet! Young heart of my old heart!"
And in his excitement he dropped the candle, which clattered to the ground, and hugged the Englishman to his breast. The latter returned the embrace; but, as the Afghan was about to renew his flowery salutations, cut them short with:
"I need your help, Youssef Ali."
"Anything, anything, child! I will give you any help you ask. I will grant you anything except sorrow. Ahi! These are like the old days, when
