“But my hand was in Durazzo, Effendi,” said the Turk.
He looked at the knife again.
“So the Black Roman is dead, Effendi.”
“The Black Roman?” asked T. X., a little puzzled.
“The Greek they call Kara,” said the Turk; “he was a very wicked man.”
T. X. was up on his feet now, leaning across the table and looking at the other with narrowed eyes.
“How did you know it was Kara?” he asked quickly.
The Turk shrugged his shoulders.
“Who else could it be?” he said; “are not your newspapers filled with the story?”
T. X. sat back again, disappointed and a little annoyed with himself.