The dark trees along the centre of the boulevard looked almost artificial against the greenish glare of the electric lights. From every cafÉ streamed bands of revellers, their brilliant costumes adding to the theatrical appearance of the streets. Dominoes of every colour flitted about; orange, purple, emerald and lemon yellow. Showers of confetti made a pink and blue snow upon the ground, and the moving crowd passed in and out from the dark shadows below the trees to the clear-cut brilliance of the light. Rattles and toy trumpets sounded shrill above the under-note made by the murmur of the populace. From some building came the noise of dancing and the crash of a band. Groups of absurdly dressed figures pushed their way through the restaurants, here a Teddy bear linking arms with a Red Indian or an English jockey escorting a ballet-dancer.

And up and down the roadway went little knots of the poorer people in family parties, father and mother in dominoes from under which appeared cheaply-shod feet, whilst rather shabby small Pierrots trotted by their side. The few fiacres could only move at a foot’s pace, the trams had ceased running. Behind the noise of the carnival and the hum of voices the town itself was strangely hushed and the tideless sea down by the harbour made no sound. Through the foliage of the trees gazed the quiet stars.

There was a queer unreality about it all, thought the Englishman as he sat at a small table on the raised terrace of a cafÉ and looked down on the passers-by. Vaguely it struck him what a fine design it might make, the dark heavy mass of greenery carved against the glittering background of the lamps, and the coloured snake of people that wound amongst the stems, paused, coiled and uncoiled. They shared the unreality of the whole thing. He felt they could not be real, they were just a boxful of dolls taken out to be played with and to be swept back into oblivion when one was tired of them.

The air was soft and warm and it was pleasant to sit there and gaze dreamily at the shifting scene. A few Arabs passed, looking impassively at it all: and it was impossible to read the expression on their dark faces. A group of palms stood black against the star-freckled sky. The whole picture in its strangeness stirred his imagination. This was Africa, even though the country of Tunis were but the fringe of it. No sea stretched between him where he sat and the hot wide spaces of the Sahara. Were one to ride and ride into the far distance, at last one would escape civilisation altogether, would reach to the primitive roots of humanity. And it was a mere chance that had brought him here.

He loved the sea and hated all liners, so was taking a trip in the Mediterranean on a small steamer. There had been a slight breakdown of the engines, and the ship had put into this little port for repairs. The first night he spent on board watching the twinkle of lights on the shore, but to-day he had landed and found himself in the midst of Carnival rejoicings. He was the only Englishman on board, and it seemed to him that he was the only Englishman in this town. At any rate he had seen no other. He heard French, Italian and Arabic spoken round him, but nothing else. During the afternoon he had wandered about the native town, and climbing up a steep and narrow street that seemed just a gash in the white walls, he had come out on a height near the fort, from whence he looked down on the harbour spread below, dotted with tiny craft, beyond it the restless rim of the sea. He did not know the East, and the picturesqueness of the Arab town delighted him; the hooded groups that sat about the doorways, the statuesque folds of their drapery, the clash of women’s anklets, the glowing sunlight that seemed to pour into every nook and cranny like some rich golden wine. It was all new and strange.

And now to-night there was the feeling of being an onlooker at some fantastic theatre-scene. As he sat smoking and watching, a passing Columbine glanced at him and smiled; the Englishman in the grey tweed suit looked so alien in this stir and flutter. And he was young and good looking. Why should he be alone? But her glance was thrown away upon him. He sat watching the scene, absorbed.

He had been there, perhaps, an hour, and was about to pay for his drink and move on, when a child’s voice made itself heard at his elbow. He turned. By his side stood a small Arab boy, wrapped in a mud-coloured garment, and it was his voice that had aroused his attention. He gave the child a coin, paid his bill and stepped out into the street. And again he found the boy beside him. He was talking in a mixture of broken French and Arabic impossible to follow. What on earth did the child want? He turned on him impatiently and the small figure shrank away, but a few minutes later it was back again, still repeating some unintelligible phrase. Telling him angrily in French to go away, the traveller pushed his way into the crowd. Long festoons of coloured paper had been flung from hand to hand and fragments of them hung dangling in the branches, stirred now and then by a passing breath of wind too faint to set the foliage itself in motion.

It was close on midnight. He wandered down the central street on his way to the harbour. As he drew near, the tang of seaweed and shipping reached him on the night air; and turning, he looked back at the coloured necklace of lights that ringed the shore. His steamer was due to leave early the next day, and this was the last glimpse he would have of the place. Queer, he thought, how he had dipped for a moment into its life. Like opening the pages of a book, reading a few lines, and then being forced to close it again.

As he stood there, he became aware of a movement in the shadows and instinctively drew himself together. The place was lonely, he was a stranger and might be thought worth robbing. Then his keen eyes made out the figure of the child who had already followed him. The boy came up to him, and this time silently held out a scrap of white paper on which something was written. The Englishman took it to the light of a lamp and read it with difficulty. The paper had evidently been torn from a pocket book, and across it was scrawled in pencil the words “Please come,” with an almost illegible signature underneath them. He stared at the writing, puzzled. He knew no one in the place, and his first idea was that the paper had been picked up somewhere. But the Arab boy was pulling his coat gently and pointing to the town. The man hesitated. Stories of decoyed travellers, of murder and robbery passed through his mind, and again he examined the piece of paper.

The writing was evidently English and it was an educated hand, though faltering and uncertain. The signature was unreadable but he guessed it to be a man’s. He questioned the messenger but could not understand what he said, and the boy kept on pointing to the town and tugging his coat softly. The traveller did not hesitate long. His curiosity was roused and there was something adventurous and romantic about the situation that appealed to his youth. He signified his decision by a nod, and prepared to follow his guide.

Swiftly and silently the latter sped in front, turning now and again to make sure he was followed. His bare feet made no sound and the cloak wrapped round him so merged into the surroundings that more than once he seemed to have disappeared altogether. A late moon had risen and the roadway gleamed in its light. As they neared the central thoroughfare with its glare and gay crowds, the boy struck off into a maze of small streets that led away from it towards the Arab quarter. The sound of revelry became fainter and as they climbed the narrow way they left it behind. Black and white in the moonlight stood the gate of the native town, and they passed through it.

The narrow dimly lit streets were almost deserted. In leaving the modern town they seemed to step suddenly into a different world, a world where men moved mysteriously on secret errands. The stranger found himself trying to hush the frank sound of his own footsteps, to bring himself into line, as it were, with his surroundings. A solitary shrouded figure here and there approached on noiseless feet and passed, absorbed and enigmatic. The roadway became so narrow that there seemed but a knife-blade of light between the black shadows of the overhanging houses which drew together like conspirators. Turning and twisting through the tortuous streets the figure ran ahead, and the Englishman still followed, though inwardly somewhat dismayed at the distance he was being taken.

At last they stopped. A low entrance stood in a recess before them, and the boy softly pushed a door open and went in, leading the other a few steps through darkness to a second one which opened into a small courtyard.

The moon shone clearly upon it, showing the arcaded passage that ran round it on which several rooms opened. From one there came a thread of lamplight. There was a small stone well in the centre of the court and the moonlight lit the dim carving on it and on the slender pillars of the arcade. Evidently the house had once been a building of some importance, but it was now shabby and dilapidated. The paving was uneven with gaping cracks, and the pillars were broken and defaced.

At the sound of their approach the door with the light was held ajar and a woman’s muffled figure appeared. The small Arab made a gesture to the Englishman to wait and went into the room closing the door behind him.

A creeper growing in a pot with its leaves trained against the wall gave out a faint scent. There was the squeak and scuffle of a bat in the eaves. From far away came the sounds of merrymakers, so attenuated by distance as to be little louder than the bat’s squeak. And in the silence round the listener pressed the sense of people at hand, of sleepers stirring to far-off sounds. Then the door on which his eyes were fixed opened slowly and a bar of ruddy light slid across the cold whiteness of the moonlight. He was beckoned in.

On entering he found himself in a small and lofty room with a marble floor on which a few poor rugs were spread. There seemed to be no windows and a lamp stood on the ground. The figure of a woman wrapped in a mantle squatted on the floor, and on a couch in an alcove the figure of an Arab raised itself with difficulty on one elbow to look at him.

“What is it? Why have you sent for me?” the Englishman asked impatiently, feeling there had been some hoax, if nothing worse.

At his voice the figure smiled. “It’s rough luck on you bringing you here at this time of night, you must forgive me.”

The traveller stood amazed. The other was no Arab, then! It was an English voice, drawling and weak, but unmistakably that of a gentleman.

“By Jove! you’re English!” said the bewildered newcomer, staring at the strange figure on the couch.

It was that of a tall man in native dress, the face yellowed and lined and so thin that every bone seemed to show. He was evidently very ill, his deep-set eyes burning with fever, his movements weak and uncertain. The Eastern robes hung loosely on his gaunt body and he was half sitting, half lying on the couch, propped up with pillows. Close by him the figure of a woman crouched over a bowl in which she stirred a dark liquid that gave out a pungent smell.

The invalid spoke in Arabic and she got up with a jingle of ornaments and left the room by another door, whilst the boy went back to the courtyard. The visitor watched her ungainly figure moving away, more and more bewildered. What on earth was an Englishman doing here, in these surroundings and with these people?

The other had been regarding him with a faint ironical smile about his lips.

“Yes,” he said, “it’s hard to understand. But there it is. It’s too long a story to tell. Anyway here I am. I’ve lived the life of an Arab for years. What’s the phrase for it?—‘gone under’—yes, that’s it. I’ve gone under. My name is Dunsford, and there’s something I want you to do for me.” He paused.

“My name’s Forde,” the traveller answered. “What is it you want me to do? Why did you send for me? We have never met before.”

“I know, I know, but I had to get hold of some Englishman—you as well as another—I can’t live much longer, and there’s something I want done. I daresay there are one or two of our countrymen in the place, but I specially wanted a stranger. I don’t want people here poking into my affairs.”

“But,” expostulated Forde, “why not see a doctor? Or have you got one? I could look up someone in the town: I’m only passing through myself, but I could find someone.”

“It’s not a doctor I want. I went to see one some time ago and there’s nothing to be done. I’ve got medicine and things,” the other added impatiently seeing an interruption imminent, “I don’t mind the snuffing out for myself but I’m worried about one of my boys. I mean for after I’m gone. He’s taken after my side,” he went on with a crooked smile, “and he’ll never settle down out here, I want him got out of it.”

Good heavens! Was he going to ask him to take over the child? The newcomer was appalled. But the invalid seemed to read his thoughts.

“It’s all right,” he assured him, “it’s not such a big job I want you to do. I’ve a brother at home, a J.P. and landowner and all that sort of thing. He’s a hard man, but he’s just, and he won’t have a down on the little chap because his father’s been a rotter. He’ll get him to England and give him his chance. But I don’t want to write to him even if I could.” He looked down at his wasted hands. “No, I want you to look him up when I’m safely gone and to tell him about the boy, and he’ll do the rest.”

“But I’m only here to-night and I’m off again to-morrow,” broke in the other. “It’s just an accident I’m in the place at all. The ship put in for repairs, and I shall never be here again.”

“All the better,” was the answer, “if I had wanted someone on the spot I’d have got hold of a consul. But I’ve cut adrift from all my own lot and I don’t want to be mixed up with them again. That’s why I told Ibrahim to find a stranger. And I fancy, by the look of you, that you can keep your mouth shut.” He grinned. “He’s been out looking for weeks past and it’s just your rotten luck that he pitched on you. But you’ll do—you’ll do!”

“But how am I to know?” began Forde, and hesitated.

“Know when I’m downed? I’ve thought it out. The best plan is for you to leave a postcard with me addressed to yourself, and when the time comes the boy will post it. No need to write anything on it: you’ll understand.”

He stopped exhausted, whilst the young man stared at him. After a minute he went on again.

“I’ve got my brother’s address written out ready. His on one side, and mine on the other, and I’ll give it to you. You’ll do it for me?” he added.

Forde nodded.

“I’d like to show you my son,” the invalid said, “if you wouldn’t mind giving me an arm I think I can manage it.”

The younger man helped him to his feet and supported him to the inner room. Here there were two beds. On one lay two sleeping dark-skinned children, but the father passed them and drew back the coverlet to show the occupant of the further bed. Seldom had Forde seen a lovelier boy. Flushed with sleep, his fair hair touzled and rough, he lay fast asleep, his open shirt showing the dimpled milk-white neck. In his hand he clutched some cherished toy. He lay on his side, his rosy cheek burrowed into the pillow, little feathers of gold about his damp forehead. He seemed about seven.

Dunsford stood looking down at him, a look of mingled pride and pain on his face, and Forde was able to study him unobserved. It was a curious and interesting face, the brow well-shaped and the eyes dark blue and with something wistful about them. The watcher fancied that the sleeping child, when awake, might show much the same wide and faintly-puzzled look. The father too must have been fair, but the hot suns of the East had burnt his skin to a deep tan. Below the close red fez and small twisted turban his fair hair seemed going grey. His extreme thinness made the sharp ridge of his nose stand out like a beak, and there was a deep groove on either side between the nostrils and the hollowed cheeks. He had been recently shaved and only a gleam of grey showed along the narrow jaw. The mouth was compressed, but it seemed more from habit than nature. And now that he was off his guard its natural mobility could be noted. It was a face that showed intelligence and sensitiveness, allied with self will and determination, even a touch of fanaticism. The face of a man who might be fired by an impracticable idea, and who would break himself to pieces in trying to drive it through. He seemed a personality driven in upon himself. His bearing showed distinction as did also his well-kept hands.

As he watched the boy his face broke up and softened. Whatever wall he had built up about his inner self his defences were down before his son. He re-arranged the sheet, it seemed more with the motive of touching the child than for any other reason, and his hand lingered by the pillow. In the silence could be heard the soft breathing of the sleeper, till it was broken by a rustle of draperies as the Arab woman rose from the floor where she had been sitting beyond the bed. At sight of her the man’s face changed. He dropped the coverlet and made a sign to his companion to help him back to the other room.

“You can tell my brother the little beggar’s all right,” he said as he sank back again upon the couch. “Legal and all that, you know. I married his mother,” with a jerk of the head towards the inner room, “before a consul as well as by Mohammedan law. The boy hasn’t been christened but my brother will enjoy getting all that done. Tell him I called him Humphrey after our old grandfather.” He stopped.

Then following his instructions Forde brought him a box which he unlocked. Inside it were some documents tied together, and from the bundle he took a slip of paper with the addresses and gave it to his companion.

“Now there’s only the post card,” he said. “You’ll find one on that table. Address it to yourself: to your home address. Then it is sure to find you.”

The other obeyed and the invalid put the post card carefully away in the box.

“That’s all, my dear fellow, and a thousand thanks. It’s a weight off my mind and I hope it won’t be a great nuisance to you.” He was silent for a time, then “Are you fond of women?” he asked abruptly. “It was over one that I went to pieces long ago.” Forde thought of the huddled shapelessness in the next room.

“I was an Army man,” began the voice again, but checked. “Sorry there’s nothing I can offer you, you don’t take opium?... But I expect you’ll be glad to be off, and I can tell you I’ll sleep easier to-night. You’ll find Ibrahim in the courtyard and he’ll show you the way back.”

The men shook hands and again the invalid declared he wanted nothing. “Only your promise not to say a word of this to my brother or to anyone till the post card reaches you,” he said to Forde, as the latter stepped into the open.

The shadow of the wall had crept a little further across the courtyard, and a few wisps of cloud dimmed the radiance of the moon. The figure of Ibrahim rose from the shadows and moved silently before him, retracing the way that they had come. The glow of illumination had died down, and only a scattered knot or two of revellers were to be seen as they crossed the thoroughfare. Night seemed to have flowed over the town and to have obliterated all tumult in her quiet tide. Down by the jetty gleamed the eye of the steamer, where she lay at her moorings, the water gently lapping her sides. Ibrahim melted away into the shadows as the young man stood a moment on deck before going below, watching the pathway of the moon across the dark water and the silver sleeping town; thinking too of the mysterious house in the heart of the Arab quarter, with its strange secret.

When he awoke in the morning he found they were already at sea and through the porthole he could see the curves of the coastline and the white semi-circle of the town fading to a faint blur. At first he thought constantly of the happenings of the night, but the interest and excitement of travel by degrees pushed them from his mind.

And then four months later it was all sharply recalled.

He was at home and they were sitting out under the big cedar on the lawn when the second post arrived. “Here’s your lot—catch!” said his brother throwing some letters across to him.

“Oh! can I have the stamp?” shrieked a small nephew, as he saw a foreign postmark.

The budget fell just short of Forde and landed face downwards, the white blank of a postcard staring at him from the grass.

He gazed at it silently. A passing breeze shook the roses on the terrace and a few crimson petals loosened themselves, fluttered a moment and floated soundlessly to the ground. There seemed to him a pause in the warm stir of summer and then a voice cried gaily, “Hullo, who’s your absent-minded friend?”