“Very well,” said I. I helped her on with her wrap, and apologising to the two others, begged them to remain. “We’ll all go together,” said Judith quietly. “And form a body-guard,” laughed Pasquale. Carlotta clinging to my arm we left the box and slipped through the promenade and down the stairs. Hamdi Effendi, having anticipated our intention, cut off our retreat in the vestibule. Carlotta shrank nearer to me. “I beg your pardon, Monsieur, but may I have the pleasure of a few words with you about this young lady?” said he in the urbanest manner and the most execrable French. “I hardly see the necessity,” said I. “Pardon me, but this young lady is a Turkish subject and my daughter. My name is Hamdi Effendi, Prefect of Police at Aleppo, and my address in London is the Hotel Metropole.” “I am charmed to make your acquaintance,” said I. “I have often heard of you from Mademoiselle--but I believe both her father and mother were English, so she is neither your daughter nor a Turkish subject.” “Ah, that we will see,” rejoined the polite Oriental. He addressed some words rapidly in Turkish to Carlotta, who shudderingly replied in the same language. “Mademoiselle unfortunately does not consent to accompany me,” he interpreted with a smile. “So I am afraid I will have to take her back without her consent.” “If you do, Hamdi Effendi,” said Pasquale in a light tone of conversation, but with the ugliest snarl of the lips that I have ever beheld, “I shall most certainly kill you.” Hamdi turned to him with a polite bow. “Ah, it is Monsieur Pasquale. I thought I recognised you.” “You have every reason to do so,” said Pasquale. “I saved you from prison.” “You accepted a bribe.” “For heaven’s sake,” cried Judith, “go on speaking in low voices, or we shall have a scene here.” One or two idlers hung near with an air of curiosity and the huge beuniformed commissionaire watched us with an uncertain eye. I kept a tight hold of Carlotta and drew her more behind the screen of a palm near which we happened to stand. “Madame is right,” said Hamdi. “We can discuss this little affair like gentlemen.” “Then, in the most gentlemanly way in the world,” said Pasquale, “I swear to you that if you touch this young lady, I will kill you.” “It appears, to be Monsieur,” said the obese Turk with a graceful wave of the hand in my direction, “and not you, who has robbed my home of its treasure, unless,” he added, and I shall always remember the hideous leer of that pulpy-nosed and small-pox pitted face, “unless Monsieur has relieved you of your responsibilities.” For a moment I was speechless. Pasquale put himself in front of me. “Steady on, Ordeyne.” “Sir,” said I, “I found this young lady destitute in the streets of London. She is my wife and therefore a British subject; so you can take yourself and your infamous insinuations to the devil, and the quicker the better.” “Or there’ll be two of us engaged in the killing,” said Pasquale.