“Carlotta?”
“Yes,” said I. “Where have you taken her to?”
“Explain yourself, Monsieur,” said Hamdi. “Do I understand that Lady Ordeyne has disappeared?”
“Tell me what you have done with her.”
His crafty features grew satanic; his long fleshy nose squirmed like the proboscis of one of Orcagna’s fiends.
“Really, Monsieur,” said he, with a hideous leer—oh, words are impotent to express the ugliness of that face! “Really, Monsieur, supposing I had stolen Miladi, you would be the last person I should inform of her whereabouts. You are simple, Monsieur. I had always heard that England was a country of arcadian innocence, so unlike my own black, wicked country, and now—” he shrugged his shoulders blandly, “j’en suis convaincu.”
“You may jeer, Hamdi Effendi,” said I in a white passion of anger. “But the English police you will not find so arcadian.”
“Ah, so you have been to the police?” said the suave villain. “You have gone to Scotland—Scotland Place Scotland—n’importe. They are investigating the affair? I thank you for the friendly warning.”
“Warning!” I cried, choked with indignation. He held up a soft, fat palm.
“Ah—it is not a warning? Then, Monsieur, I am afraid you have committed an indiscretion which your friends in Scotland Place will not pardon you. You would not make a good police agent. I am of the profession, so I know.”