"Now that I have done as you asked me," Ferrani concluded, "let me add a word. Both these men are already off duty and have left the restaurant. If you wish to communicate with either of them, I advise you to do so by letter." "You are a very courteous gentleman, Mr. Ferrani," Pamela declared, dropping him a little mock curtsey, "and good morning!" She made her way into the street outside, shook her head to the commissionaire's upraised whistle, and strolled along until she came to a cross street down which several motor-cars were waiting. She approached one--a very handsome limousine--and checked the driver who would have sprung from his seat. "George," she said, "I am going to pay a call at a disreputable-looking news-shop, just where I am pointing. You can't bring the car there, as the street is too narrow. You might follow me on foot and be about." The young man touched his hat and obeyed. A few yards down the street Pamela found her destination, and entered a gloomy little shop. A slatternly woman looked at her curiously from behind the counter. "I am told that Hassan lodges here, the coffee-maker from Henry's," Pamela began. The woman looked at her in a peculiar fashion. "Well?" "I wish to see him." "You can't, then," was the curt answer. "He's at his prayers." "At what?" Pamela exclaimed. "At his prayers," the woman repeated brusquely. "There," she added, throwing open the door which led into the premises behind, "can't you hear him, poor soul? He's been pinching some more charms from ladies' bracelets, or something of the sort, I reckon. He's always in trouble. He goes on like this for an hour or so and then he forgives himself." Pamela stood by the open door and listened--listened to a strange, wailing chant, which rose and fell with almost weird monotony. "Very interesting," she observed. "I have heard that sort of thing before. Now will you kindly tell Hassan that I wish to speak to him, or shall I go and find him for myself?" "Well, you've got some brass!" the woman declared, with a sneer. "And some gold," Pamela assented, passing a pound note over to the woman. "Do you want to see him alone?" the latter asked, almost snatching at the note, but still regarding Pamela with distrustful curiosity. "Of course," was the calm reply. The woman opened her lips and closed them again, sniffed, and led the way down a short passage, at the end of which was a door. "There you are," she muttered, throwing it open. "You've arst for it, mind. 'Tain't my business." She slouched her way back again into the shop. At first Pamela could scarcely see anything except a dark figure on his knees before a closed and shrouded window. Then she saw Hassan rise to his feet, saw the glitter of his eyes. "Pull up the blind, Hassan," she directed. He came a step nearer to her. The gloom in the apartment was extraordinary. Only his shape and his eyes were visible. "Do as I tell you," she ordered. "Pull up the blind. It will be better."