I stopped short in my argument. My eyes had found the man with the
green turban.

He stood at some distance behind the pavement-merchants and
self-advertising dragomans who pressed against the railing. In his long
galabeah of Sudan silk, ashes of roses in colour, he was tall and
straight as a palm, gravely dignified with his folded arms and the
haughty remoteness of his expression. Dark and silent, half-disdainful,
half-amused, he was like a prince compared with his humbler brethren;
but there was another resemblance more relevant and intimate which cut
my sentence short.

"By Jove," I thought, "how like he is to Anthony Fenton!"

He was looking, not at me, but at Miss Gilder, quite respectfully yet
hypnotically, as if by way of an experiment he had been willing her to
find and single out the one motionless figure, the one person whose
tongue had not called attention to himself.

Yes, I thought again, he was an Arab copy of Anthony, but more as
Anthony had been years ago before his moustache grew, than as Anthony
had become in late years. Still, there were the aquiline features, the
long, rather sad eyes shaded with thick, straight lashes, the eyebrows
raised at the bridge of the thin nose, then sloping steeply down toward
the temples; the slight working of muscles in the cheeks; the
peculiarly charming mouth which could be irresistible in a smile, the
stern, contradictory chin marring by its prominence the otherwise
perfect oval of the face. I wondered if Anthony had as noble a throat
as this collarless galabeah left uncovered, reminding myself that I
could not at all recall Anthony's throat. Then, as the sombre eyes