“Ma foi,” she cried, “when one is a spy, one will stop at nothing! But tiens, here is Madame!”
Nur-el-Din picked her way carefully down the steps, the yellow-faced man behind her. He had a pistol in his hand. The dancer said something in French to her maid who picked up the tray and departed.
“Now, Mademoiselle,” said Nur-el-Din, “you see this pistol. Rass here will use it if you make any attempt to escape. You understand me, hein? I come to give you a las’ chance to say where you ’ave my box...”
Barbara looked at the dancer defiantly.
“I’ve told you already I know nothing about it. You, if any one, should be better able to say what has become of it...”
“Quoi?” exclaimed Nur-el-Din in genuine surprise, “comment?”
“Because,” said Barbara, “a long black hair—one of your hairs—was found adhering to the straps with which I was fastened!”
“Tiens!” said the dancer, her black eyes wide with surprise, “tiens!”
She was silent for a minute, lost in thought. The man, Rass, suddenly cocked his ear towards the staircase and said something to Nur-el-Din in the same foreign tongue which Barbara had heard them employ before.
The dancer made a gesture, bidding him to be silent.