“Drive to the ‘Troc,’” he called, and to Jimmy he added, “If we must die, let us die full of good food.” In the thronged grill-room of the brightly-lighted restaurant the two men found a table so placed that it commanded a view of the room. They took their seats, and whilst Jimmy ordered the dinner Angel watched the stream of people entering. He saw a dapper little man, with swarthy face and coal-black eyes, eyebrows and mustache, come through the glass doors. He stood for a breathing space at the door, his bright eyes flashing from face to face. Then he caught Angel’s steady gaze, and his eyes rested a little longer on the pair. Then Angel beckoned him. He hesitated for a second, then walked slowly toward them. Jimmy pulled a chair from the table, and again he hesitated as if in doubt; then slowly he seated himself, glancing from one to the other suspiciously. “Monsieur Callvet--ne c’est pas?” asked Angel. “That is my name,” the other answered in French. “Permit me to introduce myself.” “I know you,” said the little man shortly. “You are a detective.” “It is my fortune,” said Angel, ignoring the bitterness in the man’s tone. “You wish to speak to me?” “Yes,” replied Angel. “First, I would ask why you have been following us for the last hour?” The man shrugged his shoulders. “Monsieur is mistaken.” Jimmy had been very quiet during the evening. Now he addressed the Frenchman. “Callvet,” he said briefly, “do you know who I am?” “Yes, you are also a detective.” Jimmy looked him straight in the eyes. “I am not a detective, Callvet, as you well know. I am”--he felt an unusual repugnance at using the next words--“I am Jimmy of Cairo. You know me?” “I have heard of you,” said the man doggedly. “What you are--now--I do not know,” said Jimmy contemptuously. “I have known you as all things--as an ornament of the young Egypt party, as a tout for Reale, as a trader in beastliness.” The conversation was in colloquial French, and Jimmy used a phrase which is calculated to raise the hair of the most brazen scoundrel. But this man shrugged his shoulders and rose to go. Jimmy caught his sleeve and detained him. “Callvet,” he said, “go back to Mr. Spedding, your employer, and tell him the job is too dangerous. Tell him that one of the men, at least, knows enough about you to send you to New Caledonia, or else----” “Or else?” demanded the man defiantly. “Or else,” said Jimmy in his hesitating way, “I’ll be sending word to the French Ambassador that ‘Monsieur Plessey’ is in London.” The face of the man turned a sickly green. “Monsieur--je n’en vois pas la nécessité,” he muttered. “And who is Plessey?” asked Angel when the man had gone. “A murderer greatly wanted by the French police,” said Jimmy, “and Spedding has well chosen his instrument. Angel, there will be trouble before the evening is over.”