It was Jethro Fawe.
Attracted by the sound of the violin, he stayed his steps and smiled scornfully.

Then his look fell on the two figures at the door of the barber-shop, and his eyes flashed.
Here was the man he wished to see--Max Ingolby, the man who stood between him and his Romany lass.

Here was a chance of speaking face to face with the man who was robbing him.

What he should do when they met must be according to circumstances.

That did not matter.