"Oh, yes! That's fine--I tell you I felt his knife go in."
"Nonsense, you were dreaming."
"Dreaming! Not I. I saw Musty as distinctly as I now see you."
"This is a delusion, Jameson," I replied. "The poor fellow is dead."
"Oh, that's very fine," said Jameson. "It is not the first of April, and
I don't believe the yarns that you've been spinning. You tried to make
believe he was dead, but I know he is not. He has got into my room, and
he made a dig at my throat with your pruning-knife."
"I'll go into your room with you."
"Do so. But he's gone by this time. Trust him to cut and run."
I followed Jameson, and looked about. There was no trace of anyone
beside himself having been in the room. Moreover, there was no place but
the nut-wood wardrobe in the bedroom in which anyone could have secreted
himself. I opened this and showed that it was empty.
After a while I pacified Jameson, and induced him to go to bed again,
and then I left his room. I did not now attempt to court sleep. I wrote
letters with a hand not the steadiest, and did my accounts.
As the hour approached midnight I was again startled by a cry from the
adjoining room, and in another moment Jameson was at my door.
"That blooming fellow Musty is in my room still," said he. "He has been
at my throat again."
"Nonsense," I said. "You are labouring under hallucinations. You locked
your door."
"Oh, by Jove, yes--of course I did; but, hang it, in this hole, neither
doors nor windows fit, and the locks are no good, and the bolts nowhere.
He got in again somehow, and if I had not started up the moment I felt
the knife, he'd have done for me. He would, by George. I wish I had a
revolver."
I went into Jameson's room. Again he insisted on my looking at his
throat.
"It's very good of you to say there is no wound," said he. "But you
won't gull me with words. I felt his knife in my windpipe, and if I had
not jumped out of bed----"
"You locked your door. No one could enter. Look in the glass, there is
not even a scratch. This is pure imagination."
"I'll tell you what, old fellow, I won't sleep in that room again.
Change with me, there's a charitable buffer. If you don't believe in
Musty, Musty won't hurt you, maybe--anyhow you can try if he's solid or
a phantom. Blow me if the knife felt like a phantom."
"I do not quite see my way to changing rooms," I replied; "but this I
will do for you. If you like to go to bed again in your own apartment, I
will sit up with you till morning."
"All right," answered Jameson. "And if Musty comes in again, let out at
him and do not spare him. Swear that."
I accompanied Jameson once more to his bedroom, Little as I liked the
man, I could not deny him my presence and assistance at this time. It
was obvious that his nerves were shaken by what had occurred, and he
felt his relation to Mustapha much more than he cared to show. The
thought that he had been the cause of the poor fellow's death preyed on
his mind, never strong, and now it was upset with imaginary terrors.
I gave up letter writing, and brought my Baedeker's _Upper Egypt_ into
Jameson's room, one of the best of all guide-books, and one crammed with
information. I seated myself near the light, and with my back to the
bed, on which the young man had once more flung himself.
"I say," said Jameson, raising his head, "is it too late for a
brandy-and-soda?"
"Everyone is in bed."
"What lazy dogs they are. One never can get anything one wants here."
"Well, try to go to sleep."
He tossed from side to side for some time, but after a while, either he
was quiet, or I was engrossed in my Baedeker, and I heard nothing till a
clock struck twelve. At the last stroke I heard a snort and then a gasp
and a cry from the bed. I started up, and looked round. Jameson was
slipping out with his feet onto the floor.
"Confound you!" said he angrily, "you are a fine watch, you are, to let
Mustapha steal in on tiptoe whilst you are cartouching and all that sort
of rubbish. He was at me again, and if I had not been sharp he'd have
cut my throat. I won't go to bed any more!"
"Well, sit up. But I assure you no one has been here."
"That's fine. How can you tell? You had your back to me, and these
devils of fellows steal about like cats. You can't hear them till they
are at you."
It was of no use arguing with Jameson, so I let him have his way.
"I can feel all the three places in my throat where he ran the knife
in," said he. "And--don't you notice?--I speak with difficulty."
So we sat up together the rest of the night. He became more reasonable
as dawn came on, and inclined to admit that he had been a prey to
fancies.
The day passed very much as did others--Jameson was dull and sulky.
After déjeuner he sat on at table when the ladies had risen and retired,
and the gentlemen had formed in knots at the window, discussing what was
to be done in the afternoon.
Suddenly Jameson, whose head had begun to nod, started up with an oath
and threw down his chair.
"You fellows!" he said, "you are all in league against me. You let that
Mustapha come in without a word, and try to stick his knife into me."
[Illustration: "YOU LET THAT MUSTAPHA COME IN, AND TRY AND STICK HIS
KNIFE INTO ME."]
"He has not been here."
"It's a plant. You are combined to bully me and drive me away. You don't
like me. You have engaged Mustapha to murder me. This is the fourth time
he has tried to cut my throat, and in the _salle à manger_, too, with
you all standing round. You ought to be ashamed to call yourselves
Englishmen. I'll go to Cairo. I'll complain."
It really seemed that the feeble brain of Jameson was affected. The
Oxford don undertook to sit up in the room the following night.
The young man was fagged and sleep-weary, but no sooner did his eyes
close, and clouds form about his head, than he was brought to
wakefulness again by the same fancy or dream. The Oxford don had more
trouble with him on the second night than I had on the first, for his
lapses into sleep were more frequent, and each such lapse was succeeded
by a start and a panic.
The next day he was worse, and we felt that he could no longer be left
alone. The third night the attaché sat up to watch him.
Jameson had now sunk into a sullen mood. He would not speak, except to
himself, and then only to grumble.
During the night, without being aware of it, the young attaché, who had
taken a couple of magazines with him to read, fell asleep. When he went
off he did not know. He woke just before dawn, and in a spasm of terror
and self-reproach saw that Jameson's chair was empty.
Jameson was not on his bed. He could not be found in the hotel.
At dawn he was found--dead, at the door of the mosque, with his throat
cut.