erty, sir."

"Not at all. Ike is the French for Isaac," responded the unblushing
Jack.

"But what was all that they were saying about Arab?"

"Arab!" repeated Jack, in seeming astonishment.

"Yes."

"Didn't hear it myself."

"I certainly thought I caught the word Arab," said Mr. Mole, giving
Jack a very suspicious glance.

"You never made a greater mistake, sir, in your life."

"How very odd."

"Very."

* * * *

The Cannebiere is the chief promenade in Marseilles, and the
inhabitants of this important seaport are not a little proud of it.

Two men sat smoking cigarettes and sipping lazily at their _grog au
vin_ at the door of one of then numerous cafes in the Cannebiere.

To these two men we invite the reader's attention.

One was a swarthy-looking Frenchman from the south, a man of a decent
exterior, but with a fierce and restless glance.

He was the sort of man whom you would sooner have as a friend than as
an enemy.

A steadfast friend--an implacable foe!

That was what you read in his peculiar physiognomy, in that odd mixture
of defiance and fearlessness, those anxious glances, frankness and
deceit, the varied expressions of which passed in rapid succession
across his countenance.

This man called himself Pierre Lenoir, although he was known in other
ports by other names.

Pierre Lenoir was a sort of Jack of all trades.

He had been apprenticed to an engraver, and had shown remarkable
aptitude for that profession, but, being of a roving and restless
disposition, he ran away from his employer to ship on board a merchant
vessel.

After a cruise or two he was wrecked, and narrowly escaped with his
life.

Tired of the sea, for awhile he obtained employment with a medallist,
where his skill as an engraver stood him in good stead.

From this occupation he fled as soon as his ready adaptability had made
him a useful hand to his new master, and took to a roving life again.
What he was now doing in Marseilles no one could positively assert.

How it was that Pierre Lenoir had such an abundant supply of ready
money, the progress of our narrative will show--for with it are
connected several of not the least exciting episodes in the career of
young Jack Harkaway.

So much for Pierre Lenoir.

Now for his companion at the cafe.

He was called Markby, and, as his name indicates, he was an Englishman.

Being but a poor French scholar, he had scraped