Interested, I rose and walked to where the little pencil sketch was hanging. Notwithstanding the dim light, I could see that the features of my dead friend were lifelike, and I deciphered in the corner the signature of one of our greatest living English artists.
“It is excellent. The expression on the features is exact,” I agreed, and, taking the coffee from the hand of the kahouaji, I sipped it, and gave him the ten centimes demanded.
Returning to my bench, I suddenly noticed that while my back had been turned to inspect the portrait, the dark-faced man who had entered after me had risen and quietly departed.
Next second I made a discovery.
“My box!” I gasped. “See! it has gone! It has been stolen!”
The Arabs, startled from their lethargy, exchanged black looks of disapproval, some of them muttering that True Believers would never pollute themselves by handling the treasure of Infidels.
“My box has been taken by that man who has just left!” I cried, rushing headlong out into the street, and glancing quickly up and down. But he had vanished like a shadow! No human being was in sight. Frantically I rushed about, peering eagerly into dark corners and gloomy archways in the vicinity, but the man, who had apparently been watching for an opportunity to obtain possession of the box, had disappeared in that bewildering maze of streets and left no trace behind!
At last re-entering the kahoua, the customers of which had now risen and were holding a very animated discussion over the dexterously accomplished robbery, I demanded if anyone present knew the man. Everyone, however, disclaimed acquaintance with him.
“He is an utter stranger,” said the old man who had been conversing with me. “To judge from his face, he cometh from the Areg.”
“Evidently he hath no friendship for Hadj Absalam,” observed one of the Arabs grimly, as in the midst of an exciting argument he stopped to light a cigarette, carefully extinguishing the match with his fingers.