“I see,” said.  Mr. Tutt thoughtfully.  “You think that by rights if anybody was going to get killed it ought to have been you?”

Willie nodded.

“Yes, sir,” he assented.

And that is how a camel was the moving cause of the celebrated firm of Tutt & Tutt appearing as counsel in the case of The People against Kasheed Hassoun, charged with the crime of murder in the first degree for having taken the life of Sardi Babu with deliberation and premeditation and malice aforethought and against the peace of the People of the State of New York.

* * * * *

“And then there’s this here Syrian murder case,” groaned the chief clerk of the district attorney’s office plaintively to his chief.  “I don’t know what to do with it.  The defendant’s been six months in the Tombs, with all the Syrian newspapers hollering like mad for a trial.  He killed him all right, but you know what these foreign-language murder cases are, boss!  They’re lemons, every one of ’em!”

“What’s the matter with it?” inquired the D.A.  “It’s a regular knock-down-and-drag-out case, isn’t it?  Killed him right in a restaurant, didn’t he?”

“Sure!  That part of it’s all right,” assented the chief clerk.  “He killed him—­yes!  But how are you going to get an American jury to choose between witnesses who are quite capable of swearing that the corpse killed the defendant.  How in hell can you tell what they’re talking about, anyway?”

“You can’t!” said the D.A.  “Send the papers in to Pepperill and tell him on the side it’ll make him famous.  He’ll believe you.”

“But it’ll take ten weeks to try it!” wailed the chief clerk.

“Well, send it down to old Wetherell, in Part Thirteen.  He’s got the sleeping sickness and it will be sort of soothing for him to listen to.”

“Might wake him up?” suggested the other.

“You couldn’t!” retorted the D.A.  “What’s the case about, anyhow?”

“It’s about a camel,” explained the subordinate hesitatingly.

The D.A. grinned.  Said he:  “It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a just prosecutor to convict a Syrian of murder.  Well, old top, send for a couple of dozen Korans and hire rooms for the jury over Kaydoub, Salone & Dabut’s and turn ’em loose on kibbah arnabeiah, kashtah and halawee.”

Mr. William Montague Pepperill was a very intense young person, twenty-six years old, out of Boston by Harvard College.  He had been born beneath the golden dome of the State House on Beacon Street, and from the windows of the Pepperill mansion his infant eyes had gazed smugly down upon the Mall and Frog Pond of the historic Common.  There had been an aloof serenity about his life within the bulging front of the paternal residence with its ancient glass window panes—­faintly tinged with blue, just as the blood in the Pepperill veins was also faintly