Cecil followed him far down the carnivalesque street of the Ouled-Nails, where tom-toms and nameless instruments of music sounded from every other house, and the _premières danseuses_ of the Sahara showed themselves gorgeously behind grilles, like beautiful animals in cages. Then Mahomet entered a crowded _café_, passed through it, and pushing aside a suspended mat at the other end, bade Cecil proceed further. Cecil touched his revolver (his new revolver), to make sure of its company, and proceeded further. He found himself in a low Oriental room, lighted by an odorous English lamp with a circular wick, and furnished with a fine carpet and two bedroom chairs certainly made in Curtain Road, Shoreditch--a room characteristic of Biskra. On one chair sat a man. But this person was not Mrs. Macalister’s man with a mole. He was obviously a Frenchman, by his dress, gestures, and speech. He greeted the millionaire in French and then dropped into English--excellently grammatical and often idiomatic English, spoken with a strong French accent. He was rather a little man, thin, grey, and vivacious. “Give yourself the pain of sitting down,” said the Frenchman. “I am glad to see you. You may be able to help us.” “You have the advantage of me,” Cecil replied, smiling. “Perhaps,” said the Frenchman. “You came to Biskra yesterday, Mr. Thorold, with the intention of staying at the Royal Hotel, where rooms were engaged for you. But yesterday afternoon you went to the station to meet your servant, and you ordered him to return to Constantine with your luggage and to await your instructions there. You then took a handbag and went to the Casino Hotel, and you managed, by means of diplomacy and of money, to get a bed in the _salle à manger_. It was all they could do for you. You gave the name of Collins. Biskra, therefore, is not officially aware of the presence of Mr. Cecil Thorold, the millionaire; while Mr. Collins is free to carry on his researches, to appear and to disappear as it pleases him.” “Yes,” Cecil remarked. “You have got that fairly right. But may I ask----” “Let us come to business at once,” said the Frenchman, politely interrupting him. “Is this your watch?” He dramatically pulled a watch and chain from his pocket. “It is,” said Cecil quietly. He refrained from embroidering the affirmative with exclamations. “It was stolen from my bedroom at the Hôtel St. James, with my revolver, some fur, and a quantity of money, on the tenth of January.” “You are surprised to find it is not sunk in the Mediterranean?” “Thirty hours ago I should have been surprised,” said Cecil. “Now I am not.” “And why not now?” “Because I have formed a new theory. But have the goodness to give me the watch.” “I cannot,” said the Frenchman, graciously. “Not at present.” There was a pause. The sound of music was heard from the _café_. “But, my dear sir, I insist.” Cecil spoke positively.