“I’ll do that with all my heart!”

“Sure!  But you and I have both got little scores up against Hassan, which it’s not in human nature to forget.  But I’ve got it worked out that there’s only one way.  It may nearly choke us to have to do it, I’ll allow.  I’m working on the Moslem character.  Mr. Hilton, make up a fire in the grate here!”

Hilton stared, not comprehending.

“Do as he asks,” I said.  “Personally, I am resigned to mutilation, since I have touched the bag containing the slipper, but if Dexter has a plan—­”

“Excuse me, sir,” Soar interrupted.  “I believe there’s some coal in the coal-box, but I shall have to break up a packing-case for firewood—­or go out into the yard!”

“Let it be the packing-case,” replied Hilton hastily.

Accordingly a fire was kindled, whilst we all stood about the room in a sort of fearful uncertainty; and before long a big blaze was roaring up the chimney.  Dexter turned to me.

“Mr. Cavanagh,” said he, “I want you to go right upstairs, open a first-floor window—­I would suggest that of your bedroom—­and invite Hassan of Aleppo to come and discuss terms!”

Silence followed his words; we were all amazed.  Then—­

“Why do you ask me to do this?” I inquired.

“Because,” replied Dexter, “I happen to know that Hassan has some queer kind of respect for you—­I don’t know why.”

“Which is probably the reason why he tried to kill me to-night!”

“That’s beside the question, Mr. Cavanagh.  He will believe you —­which is the important point.”

“Very well.  I have no idea what you have in mind but I am prepared to adopt any plan since I have none of my own.  What shall I say?”

“Say that we are prepared to return the slipper—­on conditions.”

“He will probably try to shoot me as I stand at the window.”

Dexter shrugged his shoulders.

“Got to risk it,” he drawled.

“And what are the conditions?”

“He must come right in here and discuss them!  Guarantee him safe conduct and I don’t think he’ll hesitate.  Anyway, if he does, just tell him that the slipper will be destroyed immediately!”

Without a word I turned on my heel and ascended the stairs.

I entered my room, crossed to the window, and threw it widely open.  Hovering over the distant hills I could see the ominous thunder cloud, but the storm seemed to have passed from “Uplands,” and only a distant muttering with the faint dripping of water from the pipes broke the silence of the night.  A great darkness reigned, however, and I was entirely unable to see if any one was in the orchard.

Like some mueddin of fantastic fable I stood there.

“Hassan!” I cried—­“Hassan of Aleppo!”

The name rang out strangely upon the stillness—­the name which for me had a dreadful significance; but the whole episode seemed unreal, the voice that had cried unlike my voice.