asked Owen. “Yes, effendi,” said Ali’s uncle humbly. “If you are playing tricks with me—” “I am not, effendi. I swear it!” Ali’s uncle protested vigorously. “You brought them here? To this very spot?” “Yes, effendi.” Owen climbed out of the arabeah and looked around him. In the distance he could hear the regular, rhythmic creaking of the water-wheel and then, far away across the cauliflower and maize, the faint singing of peasants at work in the fields. “Did they come here to meet someone?” “I do not think so, effendi,” said Abdul’s uncle diffidently. “You saw no one?” “No, effendi.” “They just came here and looked around?” “They talked, effendi.” “What did they talk about?” “I do not know, effendi. I did not hear.” “They just sat and talked?” “They stood and talked. They descended from the arabeah.” “And then they went home again?” “Yes, effendi.” Owen looked around, completely baffled. There seemed nothing here but garden crops and in the distance fields of berseem, the green fodder which the camels brought in every day across the bridge for the use of the donkey-boys and the arabeah-drivers.
