That very evening, after a cup of tea, he presented himself at the office of Rook near the Place du Gouvernement. As he came in he felt a little nervous. There were no tourists in the office, and a courteous clerk with a bright and searching eye at once took him in hand. “What can we do for you, sir?” “I am a stranger here,” began Mr. Greyne. “Quite so, sir, quite so.” The clerk twiddled his business-like thumbs, and looked inquiring. “And being so,” Mr. Greyne went on, “it is naturally my wish to see as much of the town as possible; as much as possible, you understand.” “You want a guide? Alphonso!” Turning, he shouted to an inner room, from which in a moment emerged a short, stout, swarthy personage with a Jewish nose, a French head, an Arab eye with a squint in it, and a markedly Maltese expression. “This is an excellent guide, sir,” said the clerk. “He speaks twenty-five languages.” The stout man, who—as Mr. Greyne now perceived—had on a Swiss suit of clothes, a panama hat, and a pair of German elastic-sided boots, confessed in pigeon English, interspersed occasionally with a word or two of something which Mr. Greyne took to be Chinese, that such was undoubtedly the case. “What do you wish to see? The mosque, the bazaars, St. Eugène, La Trappe, Mustapha, the baths of the Etat-Major, the Jardin d’Essai, the Villa-Anti-Juif, the⸺” “One moment!” said Mr. Greyne. He turned to the clerk. “May I take a chair?” “Be seated, sir, pray be seated, and confer with Alphonso.” So saying, he gave himself to an enormous ledger, while Mr. Greyne took a chair opposite to Alphonso, who stood in a Moorish attitude looking apparently in the direction of Marseilles. “I have come here,” said Mr. Greyne, lowering his voice, “with a purpose.” “You wish to see the Belle Fatma. I will arrange it. She receives every evening in her house in the Rue⸺” “One minute! One minute! You said the something ‘Fatma’?” “The Belle Fatma, the most beautiful woman of Africa. She receives every⸺” “Pardon me! One moment! Is this lady⸺” Mr. Greyne paused. “Sir?” said Alphonso, settling his Spanish neck-tie, and gazing steadily towards Marseilles. “Is this lady—well, sinful?” Alphonso threw up his hands with a wild Asiatic gesture. “Sinful! La Belle Fatma! She is a lady of the utmost respectability known to all the town. You go to her house at eight, you take coffee upon the red sofas, you talk with La Belle, you see the dances and hear the music. Do not fear, sir; it is good, it is respectable as England, your country⸺” “If it is respectable I don’t want to see it,” interposed Mr. Greyne. “It would be a waste of time.” The clerk lifted his head from the ledger, and Alphonso, by means of standing with his back almost square to Mr. Greyne, and looking over his right shoulder, succeeded at length in fixing his eye upon him. “I have not travelled here to see respectable things,” continued Mr. Greyne, with a slight blush. “Quite the contrary.” “Sir?”