“No.  There was one Turk, one Frenchman, two Italians, and one Egyptian.”

My heart gave a great bound.  Surely I had been guided aright; I should find him at last.

“Are they at home during the day?”

“No,” was the reply; “they are mostly out.”

“But they come home at night?”

“Yes, they come home at night, all except one.”

Which was he?

The Egyptian.

Did he stay at home during the day?

He really could not say.  He only came a little more than two days ago, and his habits seemed uncertain.

“And is the Egyptian at home now?”

“No,” said the man, eyeing me keenly.

“Might I ask when he will be home?” I asked eagerly.

“I do not think it right to answer questions about my lodgers,” said the man, sharply.  “You have asked a great many; I must know your reasons for so doing before I answer any more.”

I began to chide myself for my folly.  I had raised suspicions, and now I might not be able to get the information I wanted.  “I did not intend to be offensive,” I said.  “If I mistake not, this Egyptian gentleman is acquainted with a man in England whom I know, and I have a message of great importance to convey.”

“To Mr. Kaffar’s advantage?” asked the Italian, eagerly.

No words can express what I felt as the man unthinkingly uttered Kaffar’s name.  I had not come on a false report.  The Egyptian bore the name of the man I wanted to find.

“He can turn it to his advantage,” I replied.

“Mr. Kaffar is not in Turin at present,” he said confidentially.

“Could you tell me where he is?” I said, with beating heart.

“I cannot.  You see—­” and the Italian put his face close to mine.  “Might I ask if you are somewhat of a—­well, a gentleman fond of play?”

I did not reply.

“Ah, I thought so,” said he, cunningly.  “At first I was afraid you were a detective fellow, but I see now.  Well, you will perhaps know that Mr. Kaffar is a very accomplished gentleman, and he left yesterday afternoon for a little tour—­where I don’t know.  Another accomplished gentleman went with him.  We have a jolly house, and you Englishmen would enjoy a few nights here.  Come up to-night and win some of our Italian gold.”

“When will Mr. Kaffar be back?”

“He said he might be back on Monday night—­on Tuesday morning at latest.”

“I daren’t come and play till he comes,” I said.  “Will he let you know when he is coming back?”

“Yes; he said he’d telegraph.”

“Would you mind letting me know the train?  I am staying at the Hotel Trombetta.”

“Yes, yes, I shall be delighted; and then, when he comes, we’ll—­But what name shall I write on my message?”

“Herod Voltaire,” I said.

I went away then, and began to think.  I found the man, and yet I had not.  Nothing was certain yet.  It was now Saturday, and he would not return until Monday night or Tuesday morning, and I must be in London by Wednesday at midnight, or all was lost.  Say he came back on Tuesday by noon, there would then be only thirty-six hours left in which to get to London.  Thirty-six hours, and many hundreds of dreary, weary miles between!  Or if he should not come at all!  If the Italian were deceiving me!