But Paul did not waken.  A bather plunged into the pool with a tremendous splash, but Paul did not waken.  And Mr. Prohack felt that it would be contrary to the spirit of the ritual of the mosque to waken him.  But he decided that if he waited all night he would wait until old Paul regained consciousness.

At that moment an attendant asked Mr. Prohack if he desired the attentions of the barber, the chiropodist, or the manicurist.  New vistas opened out before Mr. Prohack.  He said yes.  After the barber, he padded down the stairs from the barber’s chapel (which was in the upper story of the mosque), to observe if there was any change in old Paul’s condition.  Paul still slept.  Mr. Prohack did similarly after the chiropodist.  Paul still slept.  Then again after the manicurist.  Paul still slept.  Then a boyish attendant hurried forward and in a very daring manner shook the monumental Paul by the shoulder.

“You told me to wake you at six, Sir Paul.”  And Paul woke.

“How simple,” reflected Mr. Prohack, “are the problems of existence when they are tackled with decision!  Here have I been ineffectively trying to waken the fellow for the past hour.  But I forgot that he who wishes the end must wish the means, and my regard for the ritual of the mosque was absurd.”

He retired into the alcove to dress, keeping a watchful eye upon old Paul.  He felt himself to be in the highest state of physical efficiency.  From head to foot he was beyond criticism.  When Mr. Prohack had got as far as his waistcoat Sir Paul uprose ponderously from the easy-chair.

“Hi, Paul!”

The encounter between the two friends was one of those affectionate and ecstatic affairs that can only happen in a Turkish Bath.

“I’ve been trying to get you on the ’phone half the day,” grunted Paul Spinner, subsiding on to Mr. Prohack’s sofa.

“I’ve been out all day.  Horribly busy,” said Mr. Prohack.  “What’s wrong?  Anything wrong?”

“Oh, no!  Only I thought you’d like to know I’ve finished that deal.”

“I did hear some tall stories, but not a word from you, old thing.”  Mr. Prohack tried to assume a tranquillity which he certainly did not feel.

“Well, I never sing until I’m out of the wood.  But this time I’m out sooner than I expected.”

“Any luck?”

“Yes.  But I dictated a letter to you before I came here.”

“I suppose you can’t remember what there was in it.”

“I shall get the securities next week.”

“What securities?”

“Well, you’ll receive”—­here Paul dropped his voice—­“three thousand short of a quarter of a million in return for what you put in, my boy.”

“Then I’m worth over two hundred and fifty thousand pounds!” murmured Mr. Prohack feebly.  And he added, still more feebly:  “Something will have to be done about this soon.”  His heart was beating against his waistcoat like an engine.