The moon poured radiance on the desert. At the entrance to a camel-hair
tent stood a tall, handsome man, arrayed in the picturesque costume of
the Bedouin. The tent behind him was upheld by six poles. The ends and
one side were pegged to the ground, and the whole of that side before
which he stood was quite open, with the exception of a portion before
which hung a goat-hair curtain.
This was the "house of hair" of the Sheikh El-Suleym, of the
Masr-Bishareen--El-Suleym, "the Regicide" outcast of the great tribe of
the Bishareen. At some distance from the Sheikh's tent were some half a
dozen other and smaller tents, housing the rascally following of this
desert outcast.
Little did those who had engaged the picturesque El-Suleym, to display
his marvellous horsemanship in London, know that he and those that came
with him were a scorn among true sons of the desert, pariahs of that
brotherhood which extends from Zered to the Nile, from Tanta to the Red
Sea; little did those who had opened their doors in hospitality to the
dashing horseman dream that they entertained a petty brigand, sought
for by the Egyptian authorities, driven out into ostracism by his own
people.
And now before his tent he stood statuesque in the Egyptian moonlight,
and looked towards Gizeh, less than thirty miles to the north-east.
As El-Suleym looked towards Gizeh, Graham and his wife were seated
before Mena House looking out across the desert. The adventure of the
morning had left its impression upon both of them, and Eileen wore the
gold chain with its turquoise pendant. Graham was smoking in silence,
and thinking, not of the old porter and his odd Eastern gratitude, but
of another figure, and one which often came between his mental eye and
the beauties of that old, beautiful land. Eileen, too, was thinking of
El-Suleym; for the Bedouin now was associated in her mind with the old
pedlar, since she had last seen the handsome, sinister face amid the
throng at the entrance to the bazaar.
Telepathy is a curious fact. Were Graham's reflections _en rapport_ with
his wife's, or were they both influenced by the passionate thoughts of
that other mind, that subtle, cunning mind of the man who at that moment
was standing before his house of hair and seeking with his eagle glance
to defy distance and the night?
"Have you seen--him, again?" asked Graham abruptly. "Since the other day
at the bridge?"
Eileen started. Although he had endeavoured to hide it from her, she was
perfectly well aware of her husband's intense anxiety on her behalf.
She knew, although he prided himself upon having masked his feelings,
that the presence of the Bedouin in Egypt had cast a cloud upon his
happiness. Therefore she had not wished to tell him of her second
encounter with El-Suleym. But to this direct question there could be
only one reply.
"I saw him again--this morning," she said, toying nervously with the
pendant at her neck.
Graham clasped her hand tensely.
"Where?"
"Outside the bazaar, in the crowd."
"You did not--tell me."
"I did not want to worry you."
He laughed dryly.
"It doesn't worry me, Eileen," he said carelessly. "If I were in
Damascus or Aleppo, it certainly might worry me to know that a man, no
doubt actively malignant towards us, was near, perhaps watching; but
Cairo is really a prosaically safe and law-abiding spot. We are as
secure here as we should be at--Shepherd's Bush, say!"
He laughed shortly. Voices floated out to them, nasal, guttural,
strident; voices American, Teutonic, Gallic, and Anglo-Saxon. The
orchestra played a Viennese waltz. Confused chattering, creaking, and
bumping sounded from the river. Out upon the mud walls dogs bayed the
moon.
But beyond the native village, beyond the howling dogs, beyond the
acacia ranks out in the silver-grey mystery of the sands hard by, an
outpost of the Pharaohs, where a ruined shrine of Horus bared its secret
places to the peeping moon, the Sheikh of the Masr-Bishareen smiled.
Graham felt strangely uneasy, and sought by light conversation to shake
off the gloom which threatened to claim him.
"That thief, Mohammed," he said tersely, "has no more idea than Adam, I
believe, who your old porter friend really is."
"Why do you think so?" asked Eileen.
"Because he's up in Cairo to-night, searching for him!"
"How do you know?"
"I cornered him about it this afternoon, and although I couldn't force
an admission from him--I don't think anybody short of an accomplished
K.C. could--he was suspiciously evasive! I gave him four hours to
procure the name and address of the old gentleman to whom we owe the
price of a turquoise necklace. He has not turned up yet!"
Eileen made no reply. Her Celtic imagination had invested the morning's
incident with a mystic significance which she could not hope to impart
to her hard-headed husband.
A dirty and ragged Egyptian boy made his way on to the verandah,
furtively glancing about him, as if anticipating the cuff of an unseen
hand. He sidled up to Graham, thrusting a scrap of paper on to the
little table beside him.
"For me?" said Graham.
The boy nodded; and whilst Eileen watched him interestedly, Graham,
tilting the communication so as to catch the light from the hotel
windows, read the following:
"He is come to here but cannot any farther. I have him waiting the boy
will bring you.
"Your obedient Effendi,
MOHAMMED."
Graham laughed grimly, glancing at his watch.
"Only half an hour late," he said, standing up, "Wait here, Eileen; I
shall not be many minutes."
"But I should like to see him, too. He might accept the price from me
where you would fail to induce him to take it."
"Never fear," said her husband; "he wouldn't have come if he meant to
refuse. What shall I offer him?"
"Whatever you think," said Eileen, smiling; "be generous with the poor
old man."
Graham nodded and signed to the boy that he was ready to start.
The night swallowed them up; and Eileen sat waiting, whilst the band
played softly and voices chatted incessantly around her.
Some five minutes elapsed; ten; fifteen. It grew to half an hour, and
she became uneasy. She stood up and began to pace up and down the
verandah. Then the slinking figure of the Egyptian youth reappeared.
"Graham Effendi," he said, showing his gleaming teeth, "says you come
too."
Eileen drew her wrap more closely about her and smiled to the boy to
lead the way.
They passed out from the hotel, turned sharply to the left, made in the
direction of the river, then bore off to the right in the direction of
the sand-dunes. The murmuring life of Mena House died into remoteness;
the discordance of the Arab village momentarily took precedence; then
this, in turn, was lost, and they were making out desert-ward to the
hollow which harbours the Sphinx. Great events in our lives rarely leave
a clear-cut impression; often the turning-point in one's career is a
confused memory, a mere clash of conflicting ideas. Trivial episodes
are sharp silhouettes; unforgettable; great happenings but grey, vague
things in life's panorama. Thus, Eileen never afterwards could quite
recall what happened that night. The thing that was like to have wrecked
her life had no sharp outlines to etch themselves upon the plate of
memory. Vaguely she wondered to what meeting-place the boy was leading
her. Faintly she was conscious of a fear of the growing silence, of
a warning instinct whispering her to beware of the loneliness of the
desert.
Then the boy was gone; the silence was gone; harsh voices were in her
ears--a cloth was whipped about her face and strong arms lifted her. She
was not of a stock that swoon or passively accept violence. She strove
to cry out, but the band was too cunningly fastened to allow of it;
she struck out with clenched fists and not unshrewdly, for twice her
knuckles encountered a bearded face and a suppressed exclamation told
that the blows were not those of a weakling. She kicked furiously and
drew forth a howl of pain from her captor. Her hands flew up to the
bandage, but were roughly seized, thrust down and behind her, and tied
securely.
She was thrown across a saddle, and with a thrill of horror knew herself
a captive. Out into the desert she was borne, into that unknown land
which borders so closely upon the sight-seeing track of Cook's. And her
helplessness, her inability to fight, broke her spirit, born fighter
that she was; and the jarring of the saddle of the galloping horse, the
dull thud of the hoofs on the sand, the iron grip which held her, fear,
anger, all melted into a blank.