The surprise was mutual. The stranger scanned them closely from head to foot.
“Who are you?” cried Guy hoarsely. “Can it be possible that you are an Englishman—an Englishman in Harar?”
The man paused a moment, and then said quietly: “I am a Greek. My name is Canaris Mataplan. At present I am an interpreter to Rao Khan, the Emir.”
“But your English?” cried Melton. “It is perfect.”
“I was a cafe-keeper at Cairo for seven years,” replied the Greek. “I learned English there.”
An embarrassing pause now occurred. It was certain that the Greek was the bearer of tidings from the Emir. No one dared speak. At last the Greek said quietly: “You are truly unfortunate. Tell me how you came here. I know that Zaila has fallen into the possession of Rao Khan’s emissaries. I know nothing else.”
Guy briefly told the tale, and Canaris listened quietly.
“Fools!” he said. “The English will be in Zaila again in a month.”
“And you?” rejoined Guy. “What brought you to Harar?”
“I left Cairo for Calcutta,” said Canaris. “The steamer was lost off Cape Guardafui; ten of us reached shore in a boat; the Somalis slaughtered all but myself. I was sold to the Arabs and came ultimately to Harar. I was useful to Rao Khan in many ways, and my life was spared. I have been here two years, two long years. I shall never see Greece again,” he added gloomily. “I am a slave to the Emir for life.”