her personality, which Brandt did not.  Out of “Brandt” I defy you to get any curvilinear suggestion.  I reflected dreamily that it would be pleasant to walk with her among the roses in the sunshine and to drink tea with her in dusky Moorish alcoves.  I also thought, with an enjoyable spice of malice, of what the retired Colonels and elderly maiden ladies would have to say about Lola when she arrived.  They should have a gorgeous time.

So light-hearted did I become that, the next evening, while I was dressing for dinner, I did not frown when the chasseur brought me up the huge trilingual visiting-card of Professor Anastasius Papadopoulos.

“Show the gentleman up,” said I.

Rogers handed me my black tie and began to gather together discarded garments so as to make the room tidy for the visitor.  It was a comfortable bed-sitting-room, with the bed in an alcove and a tiny dressing-room attached.  A wood fire burned on the hearth on each side of which was an armchair.  Presently there came a knock at the door.  Rogers opened it and admitted Papadopoulos, who forthwith began to execute his usual manoeuvres of salutation.  Rogers stood staring and open-mouthed at the apparition.  It took all his professional training in imperturbability to enable him to make a decent exit.  This increased my good humour.  I grasped the dwarf’s hand.

“My dear Professor, I am delighted to see you.  Pray excuse my receiving you in this unceremonious fashion, and sit down by the fire.”

I hastily completed my toilette by stuffing my watch, letter-case, loose change and handkerchief into my pockets, and took a seat opposite him.

“It is I,” said he politely, “who must apologise for this untimely call.  I have wanted to pay my respects to you since I arrived in Algiers, but till now I have had no opportunity.”

“Allow me,” said I, “to disembarrass you of your hat.”

I took the high-crowned, flat-brimmed thing which he was nursing somewhat nervously on his knees, and put it on the table.  He murmured that I was “Sehr aimable.”

“And the charming Monsieur Saupiquet, how is he?” I asked.

He drew out his gilt-embossed pocket-book, and from it extracted an envelope.

“This,” said he, handing it to me, “is the receipt.  I have to thank you again for regulating the debt, as it has enabled me to transact with Monsieur Saupiquet the business on which I summoned him from Toulon.  He is the most obstinate, pig-headed camel that ever lived, and I believe he has returned to Toulon in the best of health.  No, thank you,” he added, refusing my offer of cigarettes, “I don’t smoke.  It disturbs the perfect adjustment of my nerves, and so imperils my gigantic combinations.  It is also distasteful to my cats.”

“You must miss them greatly,” said I.

He sighed—­then his face lit up with inspiration.

“Ah, signor!  What would one not sacrifice for an idea, for duty, for honour, for the happiness of those we love?”