My friend Rasta was standing by the table, on which he had laid an envelope. He looked round at my entrance and saluted.
“I come from the Minister of War, sir,” he said, “and bring you your passports for tomorrow. You will travel by ...” And then his voice tailed away and his black eyes narrowed to slits. He had seen something which switched him off the metals.
At that moment I saw it too. There was a mirror on the wall behind him, and as I faced him I could not help seeing my reflection. It was the exact image of the engineer on the Danube boat—blue jeans, loden cloak, and all. The accursed mischance of my costume had given him the clue to an identity which was otherwise buried deep in the Bosporus.
I am bound to say for Rasta that he was a man of quick action. In a trice he had whipped round to the other side of the table between me and the door, where he stood regarding me wickedly.
By this time I was at the table and stretched out a hand for the envelope. My one hope was nonchalance.
“Sit down, sir,” I said, “and have a drink. It’s a filthy night to move about in.”
“Thank you, no, Herr Brandt,” he said. “You may burn these passports for they will not be used.”
“Whatever’s the matter with you?” I cried. “You’ve mistaken the house, my lad. I’m called Hanau—Richard Hanau—and my partner’s Mr John S. Blenkiron. He’ll be here presently. Never knew anyone of the name of Brandt, barring a tobacconist in Denver City.”
“You have never been to Rustchuk?” he said with a sneer.
“Not that I know of. But, pardon me, Sir, if I ask your name and your business here. I’m darned if I’m accustomed to be called by Dutch names or have my word doubted. In my country we consider that impolite as between gentlemen.”