"I shall be sorry when his
arrival puts an end to our engaging conversation."
Then the lift door opened and Hamdi stepped out like the Devil in
an Alhambra ballet.
He looked at my card and looked at me. He bowed politely.
"I did not know whom I should have the pleasure of seeing," said
he in his execrable French. "In what way can I be of service to
Sir Marcus Ordeyne?"
"What have you done with Carlotta?" I asked, glaring at him.
His ignoble small-pox pitted face assumed an expression of bland
inquiry.
"Carlotta?"
"Yes," said I. "Where have you taken her to?"
"Explain yourself, Monsieur," said Hamdi. "Do I understand that
Lady Ordeyne has disappeared?"
"Tell me what you have done with her."
His crafty features grew satanic; his long fleshy nose squirmed
like the proboscis of one of Orcagna's fiends.
"Really, Monsieur," said he, with a hideous leer--oh, words
are impotent to express the ugliness of that face! "Really,
Monsieur, supposing I had stolen Miladi, you would be the last
person I should inform of her whereabouts.
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