The carriage turned with a jerk out of the brilliantly-lighted thoroughfare that runs along the sea into a narrow side street, crowded with native Jews, and dark with shadows.
“Madame does not know me.”
The exact truth of this observation struck home, like a dagger, to the mind of Mrs. Greyne.
“I am a wicked person,” added Abdallah Jack, with a profound conviction. “That is why Monsieur Greyne chose me as his guide.”
The novelist began to quake. Her chocolate brocade fluttered. Was she herself to learn at first hand, and on her first evening in Africa, enough about African frailty to last her for the rest of her life? And how much more of life would remain to her after her stock of knowledge had been thus increased? The carriage turned into a second side street, narrower and darker than the last.
“Are we going right?” she said apprehensively.
“No, madame; we are going wrong—we are going to the wicked part of the city.”
“But—but—you are sure Mr. Greyne will be there?”
Abdallah Jack laughed sardonically.
“Monsieur Greyne is never anywhere else. Monsieur Greyne is wicked as is a mad Touareg of the desert.”