Cyril silently accepted this further hospitality, and stared furtively at the calm black face of his host. The nose was aquiline and the lips extraordinarily thin, so it was apparent that Durgo had Arab blood in his veins. Perhaps he was a descendant of those conquering Mohammedans who came down like a storm on Central Africa, in the Middle Ages. What with Durgo's looks, his educated speech and his air of command, Cyril wondered that he had ever taken the negro for an ordinary black. All the same he believed that, given the necessary environment, the savagery would break out from under the thin veneer of civilisation which the man had acquired at Oxford. Scratch a Russian and you find a Tartar; scratch a modern man, semi-civilised or wholly civilised, and you find the prehistoric animal. While Cyril was thinking in this manner and watching the black man's face through the smoke, he saw Durgo suddenly listen intently, with the air of an animal scenting danger. Shortly footsteps were heard in the passage without, and the door opened to admit Granny Tunks, who was shown in by Mrs. Giles. The toss of the lean landlady's head, and her air of disdain, showed that she was by no means pleased with the ragged visitor. But a glance from the glossy Romany eye of Mrs. Tunks sent her shuddering out of the room. In spite of the religion taught by Silas Pence at the Little Bethel chapel, Mrs. Giles was primitive enough to believe in the power of the evil eye. And she had some reason to, for people who offended Mrs. Tunks invariably underwent a spell of bad luck. "Here I am, master," said Mrs. Tunks with a cringing air, and Cyril started to hear her so address the negro. He was further surprised when he saw how commanding were the looks of Durgo. "Have you got those papers?" asked the negro, extending his large hand. Granny Tunks had them and said so, but it took her some time to find them, so ragged were her garments and so hidden her pocket. She still wore the brown dress tagged with parti-coloured ribbons, and her plentiful white hair still hung like seaweed from under the dingy red handkerchief. Also as usual she jingled with the multiplicity of coins which dangled from her neck, her wrists, and from various parts of her picturesque dress. In sixty or seventy seconds she managed to find a bundle of dusty papers tied up with faded red tape, and passed them to Durgo with ingratiating smiles. "There you are, deary----" "Master!" snapped the negro, with sudden ferocity. "Yes, master," stammered the woman, turning slightly pale under her brown skin. "I found them in the chest you spoke of. The cat"--she meant Mrs. Vand--"didn't see me, master, so no one knows but this gentleman; but he won't say a word; no, no, I'll be bound he won't." "How do you know?" asked Cyril sharply.