"Where?"
"In his own room."
"Just so. Could you manage to put me in a room where I can see him at supper without being observed? I should like to enter quietly and give him a surprise."
"You mean nothing wrong?"
"On my honour, I do not."
"It is said," mused the Italian, "that an English gentleman's honour is like English cloth; it can always be depended on. The adjoining room is empty, sir."
"Thank you," I replied, while he led the way to the room.
I had not been there long before I heard some one enter with the landlord. The two rooms, like many we find in French hotels, could easily be made one, as a doorway led from one to the other. I had arranged my door to be slightly ajar, so was able to see.
The man with the landlord was Kaffar!
I found that Kaffar could not speak Italian. He spoke French enough to make himself understood, and, as his host was proficient in that language, French was the tongue in which they conversed.