Already it was nearly five o’clock, so the woman Crisp and her companion strolled along to the big Café de l’Univers in the Cannebière, where they sat outside over their apéritifs, well satisfied with their preparations.
“When I dined at the Louvre et Paix last night I sat close to Barclay. The old Moor was with him, and I distinctly heard Barclay say that he would call at the Parc at nine to-night. The old Moor looks very picturesque in his native costume with his turban and his white burnous.”
“Marseilles is so cosmopolitan that one meets almost as many costumes here in the Cannebière as on the Galata Bridge at Constantinople,” laughed Freda. “Nobody here takes any notice of costume. Besides, all the Arab business men from Algeria and Tunis who come over wear the same Arab dress. In any other city they would be conspicuous, but not here.”
Dick Allen, a clever crook, by the way, who had been in many intricate little “affairs” as the accomplice of Gordon Gray, Porter, Claribut and Freda, remained silent for a moment or two.
“A Moorish costume would be a jolly good disguise one day, wouldn’t it? I’ve never thought of that before, Freda,” he said.
“Providing you knew a few words of Arabic and could speak French fairly well,” the woman answered.
“The first I could easily pick up. The second I can already do fairly well. Just a little staining of the face, hands and hair, and the transformation would be complete. I’ll remember that for the future.”
“Yes, my dear Dick. One day it might be very handy—if the police were very hot on the track. You could pose as an Algerian fruit merchant, or something of the sort, while they’d be looking for the Englishman, Dick Allen?”
Both laughed. Each had their reminiscences of being hard pressed and having to exercise their keenest wits to elude their pursuers.
“What you’ve told me about that old parson in England rather worries me,” said the man. “What can he know about Hugh?”