peered each way along the hotel corridors. He fumed. But there was literally nobody around who could have done it. "Oh, maybe I slipped," he said irritably, "but it didn't feel like that! Dammit--Oh, there's no harm done!" He went down the stairs again, scowling. The lights stayed on. The others followed. Laurie said shakily: "That was odd, wasn't it?" "Very," said Coghlan. "If you remember, I said I'd been told that I'd probably murder him." "But you were right by me!" said Laurie quickly. "Not so close I couldn't have done it," said Coghlan. "I sort of wish it hadn't happened." They reached the lower floor of the hotel, Mannard still bristling. Appolonius walked with a waddling, swaying grace. To Coghlan he looked somehow like pictures of the Agha Khan. He beamed as he walked. He was very impressive. And he'd been thinking as Coghlan had thought, for in the lobby he turned and said blandly: "You said something about a prophecy that you might murder Mr. Mannard. Be careful, Mr. Coghlan! Be careful!" He twinkled at the two who followed him, and resumed his splendid progress toward the car that waited outside. It was dark in the back of the car. Laurie settled down beside Coghlan. He was distinctly aware of her nearness. But he frowned uneasily as the car rolled away. His own handwriting in the book from ancient days had said, "_Make sure of Mannard. To be killed._" And Mannard had just had a good chance of a serious accident.... Coghlan felt uncomfortably that something significant had taken place that he should have noticed. But, he irritably assured himself, it couldn't be anything but coincidence.

Coghlan breakfasted on coffee alone, next morning, and he had the dour outlook and depressed spirit that always followed an evening with Laurie these days. The trouble was, of course, that he wanted to marry her, and resolutely wouldn't even consider the possibility. He drank his coffee and stared glumly out into the courtyard below his windows. His apartment was in one of the older houses of the Galata district, slicked up for modern times. The courtyard had probably once been a harem garden. Now it was flagstoned, with a few spindling shrubs, and the noises of Istanbul were muted when they reached it. There came brisk footsteps. Lieutenant Ghalil strode crisply across the courtyard. He vanished. A moment later, Coghlan's doorbell rang. He answered it, scowling. Ghalil grinned as he said, "Good-morning!" "More mystery?" demanded Coghlan suspiciously. "A part of it has been cleared up in my mind," said Ghalil. "I am much more at ease in my thoughts." "I'm having coffee," growled Coghlan. "I'll get you some." He got out another cup and poured it. He had an odd feeling that Ghalil was regarding him with a new 

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