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Updated: May 4, 2025
Once, shortly after the Egyptian girl had come to the house of Agapoulos, Zahara had playfully placed her round white arm against that of the more dusky beauty, and: "Look!" she had exclaimed. "I am cream and you are coffee." "It is true," the other had admitted in her practical, serious way, "but some men do not like cream. All men like coffee."
Zahara tilted her head on to her shoulder and cast a languorous glance into the shadows masking the watchful Spaniard. She could see his eyes gleaming like those of a wild beast. An icy finger seemed to touch her heart. He had lied to her! She knew it, suddenly, intuitively. Well, she would see. She also had guile. With a little scornful laugh Zahara tossed the rose on to the knees of Agapoulos.
"Does Lucullus crave for sausages? Do philosophers play marbles?" He laughed again, noting the rather blank look of Agapoulos. "You don't know what I'm talking about, do you?" he added. "I mean to say that these men have been everywhere and done everything. They have drunk wine sweet and sour and have swallowed the dregs. I am bringing them. It is enough."
He spoke with all the bitterness of a man who has made a failure of life. Agapoulos was quite restored to good humour. "Ah!" he exclaimed, brushing his moustache and rattling his keys; "sportsmen, eh?" Major Grantham dropped into the carven chair upon which the Greek had draped the leopard skin.
"M. Agapoulos," he said icily, "we have done shady business together for years, both in Port Said and in London, and have remained the best of friends; two blackguards linked by our common villainy. But if this pleasant commercial acquaintance is to continue let there be no misunderstanding between us, M. Agapoulos.
The sound of three revolver shots fired in quick succession rang out above the throbbing music. Agapoulos clutched at his shirt front with both hands, uttered a stifled scream and tried to stand up. He coughed, and glaring straight in front of him fell forward across a little coffee table laden with champagne bottles and glasses.
At the moment he resembled a window-dresser, or, rather, one of those high-salaried artists who beautify the great establishments of Regent Street, the Rue de la Paix, and Ruination Avenue, New York. Hassan lighted the sixth lamp, muttering smilingly all the time. He was about to depart when Agapoulos addressed him in Arabic. "There will be a party down from the Savoy tonight, Hassan.
He spoke wearily, as a tired man speaks of distasteful work which he must do. There was contempt in his voice; contempt of Agapoulos, and contempt of himself. "Ah!" cried the Greek, brightening; "do I know any of them?" "Probably. General Sir Francis Payne, Mr. Eddie, and Sir Horace Tipton." "An Anglo-American party, eh?" "Quite. Mr.
Agapoulos extended the prosperous cigarette-case, and Major Grantham took and lighted a superior cigarette. "How many in the party?" inquired the Greek smilingly. "Three and myself." A shadow of a frown appeared upon the face of Agapoulos. "Only three," he muttered. Major Grantham laughed. "You should know me by this time, Agapoulos," he said. "The party is small but exclusive, you understand?"
His laughter had appeared forced. Doubtless he grew weary of the woman he had brought to London. "Dance to-night with all the devil that is in you, my beautiful," said Agapoulos, hurrying into the room. Zahara turned aside, toying with the veils. "They are rich, eh?" she said indifferently. The Spaniard had said so. "Very rich," murmured Agapoulos complacently.
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