This was Istanbul, and the sounds of the city--motor-cars and clumping donkeys, the nasal cries of peddlers and the distant roar of a jet-plane somewhere over the city--came muted through the windows of Coghlan's flat. It was already late dusk, and Coghlan had just gotten back from the American College, where he taught physics. He relaxed in his chair and waited. He was to meet Laurie later, at the Hotel Petra on the improbably-named Grande Rue de Petra, and hadn't too much time to spare; but he was intrigued by the unexpected guests he had found waiting for him when he arrived. Duval, the Frenchman, haggard and frantic with impatience; Lieutenant Ghalil, calm and patient and impressive in the uniform of the Istanbul Police Department.
They were now in Coghlan's sitting-room. They held the iced drinks which were formal hospitality. Coghlan waited.
"I am afraid," said Lieutenant Ghalil, wryly, "that you will think us mad, Mr. Coghlan."
Duval drained his glass and said bitterly, "Surely I am mad! It cannot be otherwise!"
Coghlan raised sandy eyebrows at them. The Turkish lieutenant of police shrugged. "I think that what we wish to ask, Mr. Coghlan, is: Have you, by any chance, been visiting the thirteenth century?"
Coghlan smiled politely. Duval made an impatient gesture. "Pardon, M. Coghlan! I apologize for our seeming insanity. But that is truly a serious question!"
This time Coghlan grinned. "Then the answer's 'No.' Not lately. You evidently are aware that I teach physics at the College. My course turns out graduates who can make electrons jump through hoops, you might say, and the better students can snoop into the private lives of neutrons. But fourth-dimension stuff--you refer to time-travel I believe--is out of my line."
Lieutenant Ghalil sighed. He began to unwrap the bulky parcel that sat on his lap. A book appeared. It was large, more than four inches thick, and its pages were sheepskin. Its cover was heavy, ancient leather--so old that it was friable--and inset in it were deeply-carved ivory medallions. Coghlan recognized the style. They were Byzantine ivory-carvings, somewhat battered, done in the manner of the days before Byzantium became successively Constantinople and Stamboul and Istanbul.
"An early copy," observed Ghalil, "of a book called the _Alexiad_, by the Princess Anna Commena, from the thirteenth century I mentioned. Will you be so good as to look, Mr. Coghlan?"
He opened
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