IN THE MOSQUEThe Baron was finishing a speech. He was speaking in his elegant French. He leaned back in his chair, his beautiful hands lightly poised on the table before him, his head turning from side to side as his glance languidly considered the faces of his hearers. Along the table Melissa perceived Grenander, stolidly puffing a large cigar, and von Wahlczek, and Miklas; the pock-marked doctor, too, and two men she could not place who sat at the end. The place smelt musty and was bitterly cold, so that the Baron's breath ballooned about him: all were well wrapped up and wore their hats. The girl looked in vain for Boulton: Frangipani, the Italian, was missing, too.
In their rich furs the two strangers made striking figures. One was a patriarchal type, his chest barred with a great spr
