I could not sleep. My blood was in a boil. I felt that I could not speak
to Jameson again. He would have to leave Luxor. That was tacitly
understood among us. Coventry was the place to which he would be
consigned.
I tried to finish in a little sketch I had made in my notebook when I
was in my room, but my hand shook, and I was constrained to lay my
pencil aside. Then I took up an Egyptian grammar, but could not fix my
mind on study. The hotel was very still. Everyone had gone to bed at an
early hour that night, disinclined for conversation. No one was moving.
There was a lamp in the passage; it was partly turned down. Jameson's
room was next to mine. I heard him stir as he undressed, and talk to
himself. Then he was quiet. I wound up my watch, and emptying my pocket,
put my purse under the pillow. I was not in the least heavy with sleep.
If I did go to bed I should not be able to close my eyes. But then--if I
sat up I could do nothing.
I was about leisurely to undress, when I heard a sharp cry, or
exclamation of mingled pain and alarm, from the adjoining room. In
another moment there was a rap at my door. I opened, and Jameson came
in. He was in his night-shirt, and looking agitated and frightened.
"Look here, old fellow," said he in a shaking voice, "there is Musty in
my room. He has been hiding there, and just as I dropped asleep he ran
that knife of yours into my throat."
"My knife?"
"Yes--that pruning-knife you gave him, you know. Look here--I must have
the place sewn up. Do go for a doctor, there's a good chap."
"Where is the place?"
"Here on my right gill."
Jameson turned his head to the left, and I raised the lamp. There was no
wound of any sort there.