“It appears, to be Monsieur,” said the obese Turk with a graceful wave of the hand in my direction, “and not you, who has robbed my home of its treasure, unless,” he added, and I shall always remember the hideous leer of that pulpy-nosed and small-pox pitted face, “unless Monsieur has relieved you of your responsibilities.”
For a moment I was speechless. Pasquale put himself in front of me.
“Steady on, Ordeyne.”
“Sir,” said I, “I found this young lady destitute in the streets of London. She is my wife and therefore a British subject; so you can take yourself and your infamous insinuations to the devil, and the quicker the better.”
“Or there’ll be two of us engaged in the killing,” said Pasquale.
Hamdi again exchanged a few sentences in Turkish with Carlotta, and then smiled upon us with the same unruffled suavity.
“Au revoir, Mesdames et Messieurs.” With a courteous salute he shuffled back towards the stall-entrance.
The tension over, Carlotta broke from me and clutched Pasquale by the arm.
“Oh, kill him, kill him, kill him!” she cried in a passionate whisper.
He freed himself gently and took out a cigarette case.