I had not been quite sure before he spoke, but his lisp, though slight, betrayed the Jew. His features were coarse, almost brutal; but the restless eyes were so brilliant, the whole face so suggestive of power and character, that, taking him as a whole, the feeling he inspired was admiration, tempered by fear. His tone was one of kindly contempt--the tone of a man accustomed to find most people his inferiors, and too used to the discovery to be conceited about it. Behind it was a note of authority that it did not occur to me to dispute. "Yes," I answered, adding the information that I had never been abroad before, and had heard that Antwerp was an interesting town. "How long have you got?" he asked. "A fortnight," I told him. "Like to see a bit more than Antwerp, if you could afford it, wouldn't you?" he suggested. "Fascinating little country Holland. Just long enough--a fortnight--to do the whole of it. I'm a Dutchman, a Dutch Jew." "You speak English just like an Englishman," I told him. It was somehow in my mind to please him. I could hardly have explained why. "And half a dozen other languages equally well," he answered, laughing. "I left Amsterdam when I was eighteen as steerage passenger in an emigrant ship. I haven't seen it since." He closed the cabin door behind him, and, crossing over, laid a strong hand on my shoulder. "I will make a proposal to you," he said. "My business is not of the kind that can be put out of mind, even for a few days, and there are reasons"--he glanced over his shoulder towards the cabin door, and gave vent to a short laugh--"why I did not want to bring any of my own staff with me. If you care for a short tour, all expenses paid at slap-up hotels and a ten-pound note in your pocket at the end, you can have it for two hours' work a day." I suppose my face expressed my acceptance, for he did not wait for me to speak. "Only one thing I stipulate for," he added, "that you mind your own business and keep your mouth shut. You're by yourself, aren't you?" "Yes," I told him. He wrote on a sheet of his notebook, and, tearing it out, handed it to me. "That's your hotel at Antwerp," he said. "You are Mr. Horatio Jones's secretary." He chuckled to himself as he repeated the name, which certainly did not fit him. "Knock at my sitting-room door at nine o'clock tomorrow morning. Good night!" He ended the conversation as abruptly as he had begun it, and returned to his cabin.