“Here is an English milord,” said Anastasius boldly, “who would like to be admitted for the evening to the privileges of the Club.”
“Enter, gentlemen,” said the man, who appeared to be the porter.
We found ourselves in a small vestibule. In front of us was a large door, on the right a small one, both closed. At a table by the large door sat a dirty, out-of-elbows raven of a man reading a newspaper. The latter looked up and addressed me.
“You wish to enter the Club, Monsieur?”
I had no particular longing to do so, but I politely answered that such was my desire.
“If you will give your visiting-card, I will submit it to the Secretariat.”
I produced my card; Anastasius thrust a pencil into my hand.
“Write my name on it, too.”
I obeyed. The raven sent the porter with the card into the room on the right, and resumed the perusal of his soiled newspaper. I looked at Anastasius. The little man was quivering with excitement. The porter returned after a few minutes with a couple of pink oval cards which he handed to each of us. I glanced at mine. On it was inscribed: Cercle Africain d'Alger. Carte de Member Honoraire. Une soiree. And then there was a line for the honorary member's signature. The raven man dipped a pen in the ink-pot in front of him and handed it to me.
“Will you sign, Messieurs?”