“A tragic face, isn’t it?” said the man who had first spoken.

“By Jove it is!” returned the officer.  “I wonder that woman can go on singing so close to it.”

“Probably she hasn’t seen him.  How many years do you give him?”

“Thirty-eight or forty.”

“He isn’t out for pleasure, that’s certain.”

“Pleasure!  One would suppose he’d been keeping house with Medusa and—­the deuce, she’s seen him!”

At this moment the singer looked towards the stranger, quavered, faltered, nearly broke down, then, as if with an effort, raised her voice more shrilly and defiantly, exaggerated her meaningless gestures and looked away.  A moment later she finished her song and turned to strut off the stage.  As she did so she shot a sort of fascinated glance at the dark man.  He took his cigar from his mouth and puffed the smoke towards her, probably without knowing that he did so.  With a startled jerk she bounded into the wings.

At this moment John returned with two cups of coffee.

“You know everything, John.  Tell us who that man over there is,” said Ellis, indicating the stranger.

John sent a devouring glance past the old Turk’s double chin, a glance which, as it were, swallowed at one gulp the dark man, his guide, the siphon, the water-bottle and the glass partially full of the yellow liquid.

“I dunno him.  He is noo.”

“Is he English?”

“Sure!” returned John, almost with a sound of contempt.

He never made a mistake about any man’s nationality, could even tell a Spanish Jew from a Portuguese Jew on a dark night at ten yards’ distance.

“I tell you who he is later.  I know the guide, a damned fool and a rogue of a Greek that has been in prison.  He robs all his people what take him.”

“You needn’t bother,” said Ellis curtly.

“Of course not.  Shut up, John, and don’t run down your brothers in crime.”

“That man my brother!”

John upraised two filthy ringed hands.

“That dirty skunk my brother!  That son of—­”

“That’ll do, John!  Be quiet.”

“To-morrow I till you all about the gentleman.  Here is another fine girl!  I know her very well.”

A languid lady, with a face painted as white as a wall, large scarlet lips, eyes ringed with bluish black, and a gleaming and trailing black gown which clung closely to her long and snake-like body, writhed on to the stage, looking carefully sinister.

The dark man swallowed his drink, got up and made his way to the exit from the garden.  He passed close to the two young men, followed by his Greek, at whom John cast a glance of scowling contempt, mingled, however, with very definite inquiry.

“By Jove!  He’s almost spoilt my evening,” said Ellis.  “But we made a mistake, Vernon.  He isn’t anything like forty.”

“No; more like thirty under a cloud.”