As Cecil drove with M. Sylvain through the narrow, winding street, he acutely felt the East closing in upon him; and, since the sun was getting low over the palm trees, he was glad to have the detective by his side. They arrived at the wretched _café_. A pair-horse vehicle, with the horses’ heads towards Biskra, was waiting at the door. Unspeakable lanes, fetid, winding, sinister, and strangely peopled, led away in several directions. M. Sylvain glanced about him. “We shall succeed,” he murmured cheerfully. “Follow me.” And they went into the mark of civilisation, and saw the counter, and a female creature behind the bar, and, through another door, a glimpse of the garden beyond. “Follow me,” murmured M. Sylvain again, opening another door to the left into a dark passage. “Straight on. There is a room at the other end.” They vanished. In a few seconds M. Sylvain returned into the _café_. IV. Now, in the garden were Eve Fincastle and Kitty Sartorius, tying up some wraps preparatory to their departure for Biskra. They caught sight of Cecil Thorold and his companion entering the _café_, and they were surprised to find the millionaire in Sidi Okba after his refusal to accompany them. Through the back door of the _café_ they saw Cecil’s companion reappear out of the passage. They saw the creature behind the counter stoop and produce a revolver and then offer it to the Frenchman with a furtive movement. They saw that the Frenchman declined it, and drew another revolver from his own pocket and winked. And the character of the wink given by the Frenchman to the woman made them turn pale under the sudden, knife-like thrust of an awful suspicion. The Frenchman looked up and perceived the girls in the garden, and one glance at Kitty’s beauty was not enough for him. “Can you keep him here a minute while I warn Mr. Thorold?” said Eve quickly. Kitty Sartorius nodded and began to smile on the Frenchman; she then lifted her finger beckoningly. If millions had depended on his refusal, it is doubtful whether he would have resisted that charming gesture. (Not for nothing did Kitty Sartorius receive a hundred a week at the Regency Theatre.) In a moment the Frenchman was talking to her, and she had enveloped him in a golden mist of enchantment. Guided by a profound instinct, Eve ran up the passage and into the room where Cecil was awaiting the return of his M. Sylvain. “Come out,” she whispered passionately, as if between violent anger and dreadful alarm. “You are trapped--you--with your schemes!” “Trapped!” he exclaimed, smiling. “Not at all. I have my revolver!” His hand touched his pocket. “By Jove! I haven’t! It’s gone!” The miraculous change in his face was of the highest interest. “Come out!” she cried. “Our carriage is waiting!” In the _café_, Kitty Sartorius was talking to the Frenchman. She stroked his sleeve with her gloved hand, and he, the Frenchman, still held the revolver which he had displayed to the woman of the counter.