About half of them were in a panic, encouraged to it by their shrill women-folk, fighting in a swarm for tickets at one small window, where an insolent Levantine demonstrated his capacity for self-determination by making as many people as possible miss the train.
I caught sight of Mabel Ticknor in the front compartment of our car, and Grim pointed out Yussuf Dakmar leaning through a window of the car behind.

His face was fat, unwholesome, with small, cold eyes, an immoral nose, and a small mouth with pouting lips.

The tarboosh he wore tilted at an angle heightened the general effect of arrogant self-esteem.

He was an illustration of the ancient mystery--how is it that a man with such a face, and such insolence written all over him, can become a leader of other men and persuade them to hatch the eggs of treachery that he lays like a cuckoo in their nests?
He smirked at Grim suggestively as we went by, and Grim, of course, smirked back, with a sidewise inclination of the head in my direction, whereat Yussuf Dakmar withdrew himself, apparently satisfied.
"Now he'll waste a lot of time investigating you," said Grim in an undertone.

"We'd better keep awake in turns, or he'll knife you." "The toe of my boot to him!" I retorted.