"I am called Giorgi Bordu. My friend is named Jakka in the Tzigane camps. The name he bore in his own country is buried under a killing."
She looked at me more respectfully.
"Oh-ho, so he has killed, has he?"
"Yes, maiden. He is not a Gypsy, so with the knife—" Nikka shrugged his shoulders in deprecation—"but with his hands, and the pistol, now! You should see him when there is quick work to be done."
She began shifting the money into three equal piles.
"Did he have any papers, that Frank?" asked Tokalji abruptly.
"All that he had is there," replied Nikka.
"Humph!" The Gypsy thought for a moment. "It was strange that you attacked those two, Giorgi Bordu. I do not want them sneaking around here. They are after something that I want myself."
Nikka, sitting back on his heels, produced his tobacco-box and rolled a cigarette.
"Perhaps a strange thief and his friend might be of aid to you," he suggested.