The doctor described him. There was no doubt about it, it was certainly Mark.
"The scoundrel," said Helmar, bitterly, "to think he should disgrace himself in such a manner! Has anything been heard of him since?"
"No, we found no trace at all, and I shouldn't be surprised if he made his way into the rebel camp. But come, we must get to business. Osterberg can remain here until we return."
Helmar followed his friend over to the consul's office. The doctor left him for a moment outside while he interviewed the arbitrator of his fate.
Whilst waiting the result, Helmar could not help thinking of the perfidious Mark. What a viper he had been, and how quickly he had again fallen across his path! One thing was certain, if ever Helmar met him again, he would extort from him the money he had stolen, and denounce him for the rascal he was.
His reflections were cut short by the door being thrown open and a sharp summons for him to enter.
George found himself in a bare-looking office. The only furniture consisted of a desk, one or two hard, uncomfortable chairs, and a long, wooden bench. For decoration the wall was covered with innumerable paper files and maps. He had no time for inspection. He was standing in front of the desk, seated at which was a slight man. He was partially bald, and his face matched his hair—it was brick-dust colour. His features were small, though clear and sharply cut, while his eyes were jet black and keenly penetrating. The doctor was standing beside him, and the pair eyed the young man as he stepped forward.
"German," said the man, without taking his eyes from Helmar's face. "Any relatives in the country?"
"No, sir," replied George without hesitation.
"Want work, eh? Um," and he bit the end of his pen; "you speak Arabic, Dr. Dixon tells me?"