said Narouz, “I have to confess.” They were sitting again on the terrace of the Continental. Owen had suggested he visit the Prince at home but Narouz had rejected that in favor of the hotel. He preferred to make his confessions in the open air. “Yes,” he said, rolling the ice in his glass and looking down, a trifle wistfully, at the Street of the Camel, “I should have told you before. Only there are some things”—he shifted his gaze to Owen—“that it’s difficult to talk about.” “It would surely have been better—” began Owen. The Prince held up his hand. “You’re absolutely right, my dear fellow. Only one doesn’t always see these things at the time. It seemed a simple family matter. Dynastic, one might say. And, therefore, if you’ll forgive me”—he patted Owen on the arm—“nothing to do with the Mamur Zapt.” “Something to do with a clearly criminal matter.” “But was it, my dear fellow? Really? Incidental, I would have said. Only incidental.”
