"Yes, mistress," he answered unwillingly. "I your dragoman one year in
Cairo. What you want here, mistress?"
"You know that I know," she went on, "that you are a Turk and a
Mohammedan, and not an Egyptian at all."
"Yes, mistress, you know that," he muttered.
"And you also know," she continued, "that if I give you away to the authorities you will be sent at once to a very uncomfortable internment camp, where you won't even have an opportunity to wash more than once a day, where you will have to herd with all sorts of people, who will make fun of your colour and your religion—"
"Don't, mistress!" he shouted suddenly. "You will not tell. I think you will not tell!"
He was sidling a little towards her. Again one of those curious changes seemed to have transformed him from a dumb, passive creature into a savage. There was menace in his eyes. She waved him back without moving.
"I have come to make a bargain with you, Hassan," she said, "just a few words, that is all. Not quite so near, please."
He paused. There was a moment's silence. His face was within a foot of hers, lowering, black, bestial. Her eyes met his without a tremor. Her full, sweet lips only curved into a faintly contemptuous line.
"You cannot frighten me, Hassan," she declared. "No man has ever done that. And outside I have a chauffeur with muscles of iron, who waits for me. Be reasonable. Listen. There are secrets connected with your restaurant."
"I know nothing," he began at once; "nothing, mistress—nothing!"