“I must apologise for seeking an interview at this late hour, m’sieur,” I began. “But my business is pressing.”
“My servant has already told me that,” he snapped, toying with a pen and casting another quick glance at me. “And what, pray, is the nature of this—er—business?”
“It is of a strictly private character,” I answered, hesitating, exerting all my self-possession.
“Then explain it quickly, m’sieur,” he said, turning to look at the clock. “I have guests to-night.”
“First I must tell you that I have only this evening arrived from the Desert,” I exclaimed, standing before him boldly, my hands behind my back.
“You are English,” he growled. “Tourist—eh?”
“No, I’m not a tourist,” I replied. “I know the Sahara, perhaps even better than yourself; in fact, I have just returned from Agadez.”
“From Agadez?” he exclaimed, suddenly interested. “Then, perhaps, you were with Seignouret when he captured the Sheikh of the Ennitra?”
“No, I arrived later,” I said. “But it was not to describe the situation there that I have intruded. I desire to speak to you with regard to Zoraida.”
“Zoraida? Zoraida?” he repeated, puzzled. “Ah! of course! the Arab woman taken prisoner with the other scoundrels. Well, what of her?”