He was as good as his word and early that afternoon the notorious Greek “fence” of International reputation was privileged and surprised to receive four visitors. The establishment in the Jewish quarter to which Cuypers escorted them was externally unpretentious and to all appearances in no way significant of its proprietor’s world-wide notoriety. It was situated on the fringe of that part of the City of Amsterdam devoted for many years to the fascinating industry of diamond-cutting. To Anthony Bathurst, the quarter with its stalls and booths was as much reminiscent of London’s “Middlesex Street” as of anything he knew and the domicile of Stefanopoulos might have been removed _en bloc_ from the Whitechapel Road. Cuypers beckoned to them. “Come right in with me,” he said, “and let me do the talking.” “What is the gentleman’s ostensible business?” asked Anthony. “He’s a registered moneylender,” replied Cuypers, “and I for one, should be sorry to get in his clutches. He’s reputed to be the fourth richest man in Amsterdam.” He put his forefinger to his lips. “Leave it to me.” As they entered a bell jingled noisily. Anthony noticed that they stood behind a high counter that ran all round the shop, for shop perhaps described the place most closely. From the apartment in the rear a curious figure shuffled towards them. Half Greek and half Dutch—as he had been described—but facially and physically he might have passed for “the Jew that Shakespeare drew.” Cupidity and cunning were the twin lights of his eyes. And with that strange tactfulness of the habitual criminal—that sixth sense that also seems to be the life as it were of the other five—he divined that his four visitors carried for him an element of danger. This too—before he perceived the identity of Cuypers. But he betrayed no outward sign of his temporary discomfort. The school in which he had been trained was a hard one. He bowed with the servility of the race whose worst qualities he had usurped and whose best qualities he had discarded. Cuypers addressed him in English. He knew that Stefanopoulos was a cosmopolitan. To the astonishment of the Crown Prince he replied in the same tongue. “Good morning, gentlemen. Vy am I thus honoured? Mynheer Cuypers is pleased——” The Dutchman cut him short summarily. He bent forward over the counter and spoke for a few moments to Stefanopoulos in a low tone—so low that the others were unable to catch his words. The Levantine started back eventually in spluttering denial but again Cuypers checked him. “We know” Anthony heard him say—“we _know_—so save your breath—Demetri. You’ll make nothing out of this deal, take it from me, and if you don’t arrange to do what I’ve just asked you, I’ll have you arrested within half an hour from now.” Stefanopoulos snarled and showed a row of dirty yellow teeth. His lip curled back in menace. “You talk big! Pah! You can’t! What for am I to be arrested? I’m an honest trader—mind that, Mister.”