"Eh? What's that you're proposing? Upon my word, but you're a cool hand! An offer of this kind to me! That's all very well for Bournef or his fellows. They'll understand, they will. But it won't do for me, it won't do for Colonel Fakhi. No, no, my friend, I open my mouth wider! I'll consent to go halves, but accept an alms, never!" Patrice listened eagerly and, at the same time, kept his eyes on Coralie, whose face still contorted with anguish, wore an expression of the same rapt attention. And he looked back at the victim, part of whose body was reflected in the glass above the mantelpiece. The man was dressed in a braided brown-velvet smoking-suit and appeared to be about fifty years of age, quite bald, with a fleshy face, a large hooked nose, eyes deep set under a pair of thick eyebrows and puffy cheeks covered with a thick grizzled beard. Patrice was also able to examine his features more closely in a portrait of him which hung to the left of the fireplace, between the first and second windows, and which represented a strong, powerful countenance with an almost fierce expression. "It's an Eastern face," said Patrice to himself. "I've seen heads like that in Egypt and Turkey." The names of all these men too--Colonel Fakhi, Mustapha, Bournef, Essarès--their accent in talking, their way of holding themselves, their features, their figures, all recalled impressions which he had gathered in the Near East, in the hotels at Alexandria or on the banks of the Bosphorus, in the bazaars of Adrianople or in the Greek boats that plow the Ægean Sea. They were Levantine types, but of Levantines who had taken root in Paris. Essarès Bey was a name which Patrice recognized as well-known in the financial world, even as he knew that of Colonel Fakhi, whose speech and intonation marked him for a seasoned Parisian. But a sound of voices came from outside the door. It was flung open violently and the four men appeared, dragging in a bound man, whom they dropped to the floor as they entered. "Here's old Siméon," cried the one whom Fakhi had addressed as Bournef. "And the wife?" asked the leader. "I hope you've got her too!" "Well, no." "What is that? Has she escaped?" "Yes, through her window." "But you must run after her. She can only be in the garden. Remember, the watch-dog was barking just now." "And suppose she's got away?" "How?" "By the door on the lane?" "Impossible!" "Why?" "The door hasn't been used for years. There's not even a key to it." "That's as may be," Bournef rejoined. "All the same, we're surely not going to organize a battue with lanterns and rouse the whole district for the sake of finding a woman . . ." "Yes, but that woman . . ." Colonel Fakhi seemed exasperated. He turned to the prisoner: