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Updated: May 31, 2025
Greyne stepped out of his cab, and prepared to pay the Maltese driver, a trim little lady, plainly dressed in black, and carrying a tiny and rather coquettish hand-bag, was tripping lightly across the gangway. Mr. Greyne glanced at her as he turned to follow, glanced, and then started. That back was surely familiar to him. Where could he have seen it before?
The clerk twiddled his business-like thumbs, and looked inquiring. "And being so," Mr. Greyne went on, "it is naturally my wish to see as much of the town as possible; as much as possible, you understand." "You want a guide? Alphonso!"
"Miss Verbena in Algiers!" "Eugenia!" said Mr. Greyne in a husky voice, "what is this you say? This lady is the Ouled." A sardonic laugh came from the doorway. They turned. There stood Abdallah Jack. He advanced roughly to the Ouled. "Come," he said angrily. "Have we not earned the money of the stranger? Have we not earned enough?
Greyne not to frequent her company so assiduously, and when Mr. Greyne asked him to explain the meaning of his monitions he took refuge in vague generalities and Eastern imagery. He had a profound contempt for women as companions, which grieved Mr.
Greyne's ears like the asthma of dying monsters. She sighed again, and murmured in a deep contralto voice: "It must be so." Then she got up, crossed the heavy Persian carpet which had been bought with the proceeds of a short story in her earlier days, and placed her forefinger upon an electric bell. Like lightning a powdered giant came. "Has Mr. Greyne gone out?" "No, ma'am." "Where is he?"
Having been assisted by the staff into a Moorish hall, Mrs. Greyne inquired in a reticent voice for her husband, and was politely informed that there was no person of the name of Greyne in the hotel.
Forbes and the guide, she paused for a moment, and cast a searching glance upon the fairy scene. In this voluptuous evening and strange environment life seemed oddly dreamlike. She scarcely felt like Mrs. Greyne. Possibly Mrs. Forbes also felt unlike herself, for she suddenly placed one hand upon her left side, and tottered. Abdallah Jack supported her. She screamed aloud. "Madam!" she said.
They parted in a whirl of Arabs on the quay. Mr. Greyne would have stayed to assist Mademoiselle Verbena, but she bade him go. She whispered that she thought it "better" that they should not seem to enfin! "I will write to-morrow," she murmured. "Au revoir!" On the last word she was gone. Mr. Greyne saw nothing but Arabs and hotel porters. Loneliness seemed to close in on him once more.
The proprietor, the maître d'hôtel, the waiters, the porters, the chasseurs, Mrs. Greyne and Mrs. Forbes, all turned about to face the determined speaker. And there before them, his dark eyes gleaming, his long moustaches bristling fiercely here stood Abdallah Jack. Man is a self-deceiver. It must, therefore, ever be a doubtful point whether Mr.
When Mr. Greyne returned from his shopping excursion the barouche, loaded almost to the gunwale if one may be permitted a nautical expression in this connection had to be disburdened, and its contents conveyed upstairs to Mr. Greyne's bedroom, into which Mrs. Greyne herself presently entered to give directions for their disposing.
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