The two rooms, like many we find in French hotels, could easily be made one, as a doorway led from one to the other.

I had arranged my door to be slightly ajar, so was able to see.
The man with the landlord was Kaffar! I found that Kaffar could not speak Italian.

He spoke French enough to make himself understood, and, as his host was proficient in that language, French was the tongue in which they conversed.
"Has any one been asking for me ?" asked Kaffar.
"Yes, sir." "Who ?" "A gentleman from England." "From England! What kind of a man ?" "A giant, with brown hair." "A giant, with brown hair! Man, where is he now ?" "How can I say ?" said the Italian.
Kaffar held down his head for a minute, and then said hastily, "And his message ?" "Something to your advantage, sir." "My advantage?
Can it be he?
Did he give his name ?" "Herod Voltaire!" "Voltaire! Never! He dare not come near me; I'm his master for many reasons--he dare not come! But--" He checked himself, as if he were telling the Italian too much.

The host then left the room, while Kaffar went on with his supper.
I opened the door noiselessly and went into the room, and said distinctly, "Good evening, Mr.Kaffar." He looked up and saw me.

Never, I think, did I see so much terror, astonishment, mingled with hate, expressed on a human face before.
He made a leap for the door.