There was a mirror on the wall behind him, and as I faced him I could not help seeing my reflection.

It was the exact image of the engineer on the Danube boat--blue jeans, loden cloak, and all.

The accursed mischance of my costume had given him the clue to an identity which was otherwise buried deep in the Bosporus.
I am bound to say for Rasta that he was a man of quick action.

In a trice he had whipped round to the other side of the table between me and the door, where he stood regarding me wickedly.
By this time I was at the table and stretched out a hand for the envelope.

My one hope was nonchalance.
'Sit down, sir,' I said, 'and have a drink.