twenty-five minutes to
eleven
He was a true member of that brotherhood , represented throughout the bazaars of the East , of those singular shopkeepers who live by commercial rapine , who , demanding a hundred piastres for an embroidered shawl from a plain woman , will exchange it with a pretty one for a perfumed handkerchief . Externally of London , he was internally of the Levant . His vigil lasted but a quarter of an hour . At twenty-five minutes to eleven , Helen Cumberly came running down the steps of the hotel and hurried toward the Strand . Like a shadow , Gianapolis , throwing away a half-smoked cigarette , glided around the corner , paused and so timed his return that he literally ran into the girl as she entered the main thoroughfare . He started back . `` Why ! ''