And of what nature was their task at the furnaces? I had assumed at the first thought that they were workers in precious metals, in the gold and silver which the cleverest thieves of Europe shipped here to their hands. Not a little to my astonishment, the facts did not at the moment bear out my supposition. Much of the work seemed shipwright’s business or such casting as might be done at any Sheffield blast furnace. Forging there was, and shaping and planing—not a sign of any criminal occupation, or one that would bear witness against them. The circumstance, however, did not deceive me. It fitted perfectly into the plan I had prepared against my coming to Santa Maria, and General Fordibras’s discovery of my journey. Of course, these men would not be working precious metals—not at least to-night. This I had said when recollection of my own situation came back to me suddenly; and realising the folly of further espionage, I turned about to find Okyada and quit the spot. Then I discovered that my servant had left the plateau, and that I stood face to face with the ugliest and most revolting figure of a Jew it has ever been my misfortune to look upon. CHAPTER XIV. VALENTINE IMROTH. _Dr. Fabos Meets the Jew._ Imagine a man some five feet six in height, weak and tottering upon crazy knees, and walking laboriously by the aid of a stick. A deep green shade habitually covered protruding and bloodshot eyes, but for the nonce it had been lifted upon a high and cone-shaped forehead, the skin of which bore the scars of ancient wounds and more than one jagged cut. A goat’s beard, long and unkempt and shaggy, depended from a chin as sharp as a wedge; the nose was prominent, but not without a suggestion of power; the hands were old and tremulous, but quivering still with the desire of life. So much a glare of the furnace’s light showed me at a glance. When it died down, I was left alone in the darkness with this revolting figure, and had but the dread suggestion of its presence for my companion. “Dr. Fabos of London. Is it not Dr. Fabos? I am an old man, and my eyes do not help me as once they did. But I think it is Dr. Fabos!” I turned upon him and declared myself, since any other course would have made me out afraid of him. “I am Dr. Fabos—yes, that is so. And you, I think, are the Polish Jew they call Val Imroth?” He laughed, a horrible dry throaty laugh, and drew a little nearer to me. “I expected you before—three days ago,” he said, just in the tone of a cat purring. “You made a very slow passage, Doctor—a very slow passage, indeed. All is well that ends well, however. Here you are at Santa Maria, and there is your yacht down yonder. Let me welcome you to the Villa.”