The smiling eyes of the Englishman were challenging. The other shrugged as well as his attitude would permit, and, emitting a cloud of smoke from his rank cigar, pretended to continue his reading.
At that moment a stir recurred amongst the "crap-shooters" under one of the windows, and the Englishman looked round. His alert ears had caught the sound of Saney's name on the lips of one of the men who had ceased his play to peer out of the window.
He rose swiftly from his chair and joined the group. The man with the beard had made no movement. He, too, had heard Saney's name, and a keen, alert, sidelong glance followed his neighbour's movements.
The other was away some seconds. When he returned his breathing seemed to have quickened, and a light of uncertainty shone in his eyes.
"It's Saney," he said, without waiting for any question. "He's coming down the street. I should think he's coming here. He's crossed over as if he were."
"Alone?"
The bearded man's question was sharp.
"No. There's another fellow with him. He's in plain clothes. A youngish looking fellow, with a clean shaven face, and a pair of shoulders like an ox. Looks to me like a cavalryman in mufti. He certainly looks as if he ought to have a saddle under him. I——"
The other waited for no more. He was on his feet and across the room at the window in a twinkling. And the smiling eyes of the Englishman gazed after him. In the other's absence he picked up the paper which had fallen upon the floor, and looked again at the portrait of the man, and re-read the letterpress underneath it.
"Hervey Garstaing," he murmured, as though impressing the name upon his mind. Then he laid the paper quickly aside as the thrusting of chairs announced his companion's return.