“He isn’t out for pleasure, that’s certain.”
“Pleasure! One would suppose he’d been keeping house with Medusa and—the deuce, she’s seen him!”
At this moment the singer looked towards the stranger, quavered, faltered, nearly broke down, then, as if with an effort, raised her voice more shrilly and defiantly, exaggerated her meaningless gestures and looked away. A moment later she finished her song and turned to strut off the stage. As she did so she shot a sort of fascinated glance at the dark man. He took his cigar from his mouth and puffed the smoke towards her, probably without knowing that he did so. With a startled jerk she bounded into the wings.
At this moment John returned with two cups of coffee.
“You know everything, John. Tell us who that man over there is,” said Ellis, indicating the stranger.
John sent a devouring glance past the old Turk’s double chin, a glance which, as it were, swallowed at one gulp the dark man, his guide, the siphon, the water-bottle and the glass partially full of the yellow liquid.
“I dunno him. He is noo.”
“Is he English?”
“Sure!” returned John, almost with a sound of contempt.
He never made a mistake about any man’s nationality, could even tell a Spanish Jew from a Portuguese Jew on a dark night at ten yards’ distance.