He arose quickly as they came under the awning.  A frank, even joyous, smile now lighted his face, a smile that meant more than either of them could have suspected.  It was the smile of one who had almost forgotten what it meant to have the companionship of his fellow-man.  Both men were surprised by the eager, sincere manner in which he greeted them.  He clasped their hands in a grip that belied his terse, uncompromising manner at the telephone; his eyes were not those of the domineering individual whom conjecture had appraised so vividly a short time before.

“Glad to see you, gentlemen,” he said.  He was a head taller than either, coatless and hatless, a lean but brawny figure in white crash trousers.  His shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, displaying hard, sinewy forearms, browned by the sun and wind.  “It’s very good of you to come down.  I’m sure we won’t have to call out the British or American gunboats to preserve order in our midst.  I know something a great deal better than gunboats.  If you’ll come to my shack down the street, I’ll mix you a real American cocktail, a mint julep, a brandy smash or anything you like in season.  There’s a fine mint bed up my way, just back of the bungalow.  It’s more precious than a ruby mine, let me tell you.  And yet, I’ll exchange three hundred carats of mint, Mr. Britt, for a dozen boxes of your Egyptian deities.”

Then as they sauntered off into a narrow side street:  “Do you know, gentlemen, I made the greatest mistake of my life in failing to bring a ton of these little white sticks out with me?  I thought of Gordon gin, both kinds of vermouth, brandy, and all that sort of thing, and completely forgot the staff of life.  I happened to know that you have a million packages of them, more or less, up at the chateau.  My spies told me.  I daresay you know that I have spies up there all the time?  Don’t pay any attention to them.  You’re at liberty to set spies on my trail at any time.  Here we are.  This is the headquarters for the Mine-owners’ Association of Japat.”

He led them down a flight of steps and into a long, cool-looking room some distance below the level of the street.  Narrow windows near the ceiling let in the light of day and yet kept out much of the oppressive heat.  A huge ice chest stood at one end of the room.  At the other end was his desk; a couch, two chairs, and a small deal table were the only other articles of furniture.  The floor was covered with rugs; the walls were hung with ancient weapons of offence and defence.

“The Mine-owners’ Association, gentlemen, comprises the entire population of Japat.  Here is where I receive my clients; here is where they receive their daily loaf, if you will pardon the simile.  I sit in the chairs; they squat on the rugs.  We talk about rubies and sapphires as if they were peanuts.  Occasionally we talk about our neighbours.  Shall I make three mint juleps?  Here, Selim!  The ice, the mint and the straws—­and the bottles.  Sit down, gentlemen.  This is the American bar that Baedeker tells you about—­the one you’ve searched all over Europe for, I daresay.”