There was one other behind the mushrabieh screens. The niceties of his dress were Parisian, punctilious, perfect. In his right lapel was the unostentatious button of the Legion d'Honneur.
The Englishman spoke. "Much of your story, Monsieur Jusseret, is familiar to me. It will, however, prove interesting in toto, I daresay, to our friend Abdul Said Bey, whom Allah preserve."
There was a murmur of compliment from the Turk, adding his assurance of interest, and the Frenchman took up the thread of his narrative.
"We supposed that Karyl was dead—the Throne of Galavia clear for Delgado. Alas, we were in error!" The speaker shook his head in deep regret, as, turning to Martin, he added:
"It was a pardonable mistake. Let us hope the announcement was merely premature." He lifted his wine-glass with the air of one proposing a toast. "It becomes our duty to make that statement true. Messieurs, our success!"
When the three glasses had been set down, the Englishman questioned: "How did it occur?"
In the smooth manner of an after-dinner narrative, Jusseret explained the occurrences of the night when he had brought his plans to an almost successful termination. He told his story with charm of recital, verve and humor, and gave it withal a touch of vivid realism, so that even his auditors, long since graduated from the stage where a tale of adventurous undertaking thrilled them, yet listened with profound interest.
With the salad Jusseret sighed regretfully.
"I rather plume myself on one quality of my work, Monsieur Martin. I rarely overlook an integral detail. I, however, find myself growing alarmingly faulty of judgment."
"Indeed!" The Englishman was not greatly engrossed in the autobiographical phases of Jusseret's diplomatic felonies.