Ingolby laughed. "You? Oh, I wish all the others were like you. It's
the highly respectable members of the community I've always had to
watch."

The fiddle-song came squeaking out upon the sunny atmosphere.
It arrested the attention of a man on the other side of the street--
a stranger in strange Lebanon. He wore a suit of Western clothes as a
military man wears mufti, if not awkwardly, yet with a manner not wholly
natural--the coat too tight across the chest, too short in the body.
However, the man was handsome and unusual in his leopard way, with his
brown curling hair and well-cared-for moustache. 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. There was the impulse
storming in his brain, and it drove him across the street as the Boss
Doctor walked away, and Ingolby entered the shop. All Jethro realized
was that the man who stood in his way, the big, rich, masterful Gorgio
was there.

He entered the shop after Ingolby, and stood for an instant unseen. The
old negro barber with his curly white head, slave-black face, and large,
shrewd, meditative eyes was standing in a corner with a violin under his
chin, his cheek lovingly resting against it, as he drew his bow through