“Poor thing!” said Cecil; “she was only trying to suit your tastes. She never talks to me like that.”
“And now,” went on Charlie, meditatively, “she proves to be an excellent wife and a clever and businesslike woman.”
“I never like judging people from casual impressions,” said Cecil, “but sometimes it is very hard not to do it. That tall dark man, for instance, who is talking to Madame Petroffsky—I don’t like him. I have seen him once or twice at the Palace, crossing the outer court with the Pasha, and he always seems to me to be—what shall I say?—slippery.”
“I should say that you had described him exactly,” said Charlie. “He is a peculiar product of centuries of contact between European and Eastern diplomacy, and he is particularly slippery. He is a Levantine Greek, and his name is Karalampi.”
“Oh, I have heard Azim Bey talk of him,” said Cecil. “He told me he taught him French.”
“I think Azim Bey may be very thankful that he has got into other hands,” said Charlie.
“Why?” asked Cecil.
“Well, one hears a good deal about Karalampi which one doesn’t care to repeat, but I can tell you what he is. The Pasha employs him as a spy on the various consulates, and the consulates use him as a spy on the Pasha and on each other. How he contrives to play them all off against one another I don’t know, but I suppose he gives each employer his turn. He used to be attached to the French Consulate, but no doubt his present position is more lucrative. He does people’s dirty work for them. Of course he is not officially employed by any one, but if you could question Sir Dugald you would find out that more than once M. Karalampi had furnished important information in the nick of time and had been suitably rewarded.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Cecil, indignantly. “Who told you?”
“Azevedo, the old Jewish banker, a great crony of mine. Most of my friends are Jews, Turks, infidels, or heretics, somehow.”