Part 33 (2/2)

”Hamdi--he's down there--he saw me.”

I sprang to her a.s.sistance and put my arm around her.

”Nonsense, dear,” said I.

But Pasquale, looking around the house, cried:

”By Jove! she's right. I would recognise the old villain a thousand years hence in Tartarus. There he is.”

I left Carlotta, and the first person my eyes rested upon in the stalls was my obese but suave Oriental, regarding the box with an impa.s.sive countenance.

”That's Hamdi Effendi, all right,” said Pasquale.

Carlotta clutched my arms as I joined her at the back of the box.

”Oh, take me away, Seer Marcous, take me away,” she moaned piteously. My poor child was white and shaken with fear. I again put my arm round her.

”No harm can happen to you, dear,” I said, soothingly.

”Oh, darling Seer Marcous, take me home,” cried Carlotta.

”Very well,” said I. I helped her on with her wrap, and apologising to the two others, begged them to remain.

”We'll all go together,” said Judith quietly.

”And form a body-guard,” laughed Pasquale.

Carlotta clinging to my arm we left the box and slipped through the promenade and down the stairs.

Hamdi Effendi, having antic.i.p.ated our intention, cut off our retreat in the vestibule. Carlotta shrank nearer to me.

”I beg your pardon, Monsieur, but may I have the pleasure of a few words with you about this young lady?” said he in the urbanest manner and the most execrable French.

”I hardly see the necessity,” said I.

”Pardon me, but this young lady is a Turkish subject and my daughter.

My name is Hamdi Effendi, Prefect of Police at Aleppo, and my address in London is the Hotel Metropole.”

”I am charmed to make your acquaintance,” said I. ”I have often heard of you from Mademoiselle--but I believe both her father and mother were English, so she is neither your daughter nor a Turkish subject.”

”Ah, that we will see,” rejoined the polite Oriental. He addressed some words rapidly in Turkish to Carlotta, who shudderingly replied in the same language.

”Mademoiselle unfortunately does not consent to accompany me,” he interpreted with a smile. ”So I am afraid I will have to take her back without her consent.”

”If you do, Hamdi Effendi,” said Pasquale in a light tone of conversation, but with the ugliest snarl of the lips that I have ever beheld, ”I shall most certainly kill you.”

Hamdi turned to him with a polite bow.

”Ah, it is Monsieur Pasquale. I thought I recognised you.”

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