And here, at last, in an obscure French hotel in Cairo, was Falcontent, bound for the Holy Land, to be made or broken, at the expense of Groot & McCarthy. It was amusing; but Falcontent was not amused. It was not possible for Falcontent in the pass of spiritual exhaustion to which he had come to sustain even a flash of amusement. Falcontent was in a wretched condition; he was thin, weak, untidy, downcast. He was a little the worse of brandy-and-soda, too, of course—nothing to speak of; and he was so very much the worse of Life that his long, vacant face, his lusterless eyes, his listless attitude, all the evidences of spiritual fatigue, communicated melancholy even to those surroundings which had determined to be gay in spite of whatever might happen. Falcontent attracted glances—which were averted, repelled. But presently a spare, brown, alert little man—a muscular little fellow, washed by wind and sun, now clad in the fashion of a Continental dandy, with an inverted mustache, to which he was in the habit of giving a quick, defiant twist, at the same time indulging a swash-buckling scowl—sidled close to Falcontent, as though casually, and sat down beside him, again casually.
Presently the brown little man flashed a keen eye over Falcontent. He glanced off at once; but his clean, brown eyes presently returned, now smiling ingenuously, and he made bold to address the traveler.
“Good evenin’, Mr. Falcontent,” he ventured, politely.
“Who the devil are you?” Falcontent growled.
“Ver’ proper in-qui-ry,” the little man warmly agreed. His smile broadened trustfully. “I was born in Jerusalem. Mr. Amos Awad. It is I.” The announcement was made with a flourish.
“Well, George,” Falcontent drawled—the little man was dark of skin—“will you please tell me how you happened to know my name?”
“You wonder, eh?”
“A con game, George?”
“It is matter business; that is all.”