One would not readily associate the party of top-booted sewermenwho descend nightly to the subterranean passages of London withthe stout viceconsul at Durazzo. Yet it was one unimaginative manwho lived in Lambeth and had no knowledge that there was such aplace as Durazzo who was responsible for bringing this comfortableofficial out of his bed in the early hours of the morning causinghim - albeit reluctantly and with violent and insubordinatelanguage - to conduct certain investigations in the crowdedbazaars.

　　At first he was unsuccessful because there were many HusseinEffendis in Durazzo. He sent an invitation to the American Consulto come over to tiffin and help him.

　　"Why the dickens the Foreign Office should suddenly be interestedin Hussein Effendi, I cannot for the life of me understand.""The Foreign Department has to be interested in something, youknow," said the genial American. "I receive some of the quaintestrequests from Washington; I rather fancy they only wire you tofind if they are there.""Why are you doing this!""I've seen Hakaat Bey," said the English official. "I wonder whatthis fellow has been doing? There is probably a wigging for me inthe offing."At about the same time the sewerman in the bosom of his own familywas taking loud and noisy sips from a big mug of tea.

　　"Don't you be surprised," he said to his admiring better half, "ifI have to go up to the Old Bailey to give evidence.""Lord! Joe!" she said with interest, "what has happened!"The sewer man filled his pipe and told the story with a wealth oframbling detail. He gave particulars of the hour he had descendedthe Victoria Street shaft, of what Bill Morgan had said to him asthey were going down, of what he had said to Harry Carter as theysplashed along the low-roofed tunnel, of how he had a funnyfeeling that he was going to make a discovery, and so on and soforth until he reached his long delayed climax.

　　T. X. waited up very late that night and at twelve o'clock hispatience was rewarded, for the Foreign Office' messenger brought atelegram to him. It was addressed to the Chief Secretary and ran:

　　"No. 847. Yours 63952 of yesterday's date. Begins. HusseinEffendi a prosperous merchant of this city left for Italy to placehis daughter in convent Marie Theressa, Florence Hussein beingChristian. He goes on to Paris. Apply Ralli Theokritis et Cie.,Rue de 1'Opera. Ends."Half an hour later T. X. had a telephone connection through toParis and was instructing the British police agent in that city.

　　He received a further telephone report from Paris the next morningand one which gave him infinite satisfaction. Very slowly butsurely he was gathering together the pieces of this bafflingmystery and was fitting them together. Hussein Effendi wouldprobably supply the last missing segments.

　　At eight o'clock that night the door opened and the man whorepresented T. X. in Paris came in carrying a travelling ulster onhis arm. T. X. gave him a nod and then, as the newcomer stoodwith the door open, obviously waiting for somebody to follow him,he said,"Show him in - I will see him alone."There walked into his office, a tall man wearing a frock coat anda red fez. He was a man from fifty-five to sixty, powerfullybuilt, with a grave dark face and a thin fringe of white beard.

　　He salaamed as he entered.

　　"You speak French, I believe," said T. X. presently.

　　The other bowed.

　　"My agent has explained to you," said T. X. in French, "that Idesire some information for the purpose of clearing up a crimewhich has been committed in this country. I have given you myassurance, if that assurance was necessary, that you would come tono harm as a result of anything you might tell me.""That I understand, Effendi," said the tall Turk; "the Americansand the English have always been good friends of mine and I havebeen frequently in London. Therefore, I shall be very pleased tobe of any help to you."T. X. walked to a closed bookcase on one side of the room,unlocked it, took out an object wrapped in white tissue paper. Helaid this on the table, the Turk watching the proceedings with animpassive face. Very slowly the Commissioner unrolled the littlebundle and revealed at last a long, slim knife, rusted andstained, with a hilt, which in its untarnished days had evidentlybeen of chased silver. He lifted the dagger from the table andhanded it to the Turk.

　　"This is yours, I believe," he said softly.

　　The man turned it over, stepping nearer the table that he mightsecure the advantage of a better light. He examined the bladenear the hilt and handed the weapon back to T. X.

　　"That is my knife," he said.

　　T. X. smiled.

　　"You understand, of course, that I saw 'Hussein Effendi ofDurazzo' inscribed in Arabic near the hilt."The Turk inclined his head.

　　"With this weapon," T. X. went on, speaking with slow emphasis, "amurder was committed in this town."There was no sign of interest or astonishment, or indeed of anyemotion whatever.

　　"It is the will of God," he said calmly; "these things happen evenin a great city like London.""It was your knife," suggested T. X.

　　"But my hand was in Durazzo, Eff............