THE HASHISHIN WATCH
“The American gentleman has just gone out, sir,” said the sergeant at
the door.
I nodded grimly and raced down the steps. Despite my half-formed desire
that the slipper should be recovered by those to whom properly it
belonged, I experienced at times a curious interest in its welfare. I
cannot explain this. Across the hall in front of me I saw Earl Dexter
passing out of the Museum. I followed him through into Kingsway and
thence to Fleet Street. He sauntered easily along, a nonchalant gray
figure. I had begun to think that he was bound for his hotel and that I
was wasting my time when he turned sharply into quiet Salisbury Square;
it was almost deserted.
My heart leapt into my mouth with a presentiment of what was coming as
I saw an elegant and beautifully dressed woman sauntering along in
front of us on the far side.
Was it that I detected something familiar in her carriage, in the poise
of her head—something that reminded me of former unforgettable
encounters; encounters which without exception had presaged attempts
upon the slipper of the Prophet? Or was it that I recollected how
Dexter had booked two passages to America? I cannot say, but I felt my
heart leap; I knew beyond any possibility of doubt that this meeting in
Salisbury Square marked the opening of a new chapter in the history of
the slipper.
Dexter slipped his arm within that of the girl in front of him and they
paced slowly forward in earnest conversation. I suppose my action was
very amateurish and very poor detective work; but regardless of
discovery I crossed the road and passed close by the pair.
I am certain that Dexter was speaking as I came up, but, well out of
earshot, his voice was suddenly arrested. His companion turned and
looked at me.
I was prepared for it, yet was thrilled electrically by the flashing
glance of the violet eyes—for it was she—the beautiful harbinger of
calamities!
My brain was in a whirl; complication piled itself upon complication;
yet in the heart of all this bewilderment I thought I could detect the
key of the labyrinth, but at the time my ideas were in disorder, for
the violet eyes were not lowered but fixed upon me in cold scorn.
I knew myself helpless, and bending my head with conscious
embarrassment I passed on hurriedly.
I had work to do in plenty, but I could not apply my mind to it; and
now, although the obvious and sensible thing was to go about my
business, I wandered on aimlessly, my brain employed with a hundred
idle conjectures and the query, “Where have I seen The Stetson Man?”
seeming to beat, like a tattoo, in my brain. There was something
magnetic about the accursed slipper, for without knowing by what route
I had arrived there, I found myself in Great Orchard Street and close
under the walls of the British Antiquarian Museum. Then I was
effectually aroused from my reverie.
Two men, both tall, stood in the shadow of a doorway on the Opposite
side of the street, staring intently up at the Museum windows. It was a
tropically hot afternoon and they stood in deepest shadow. No one else
was in Orchard Street—that odd little backwater—at the time, and they
stood gazing upward intently and gave me not even a passing glance.
But I knew one for the Oriental visitor of the morning, and despite
broad noonday and the hum of busy London about me, my blood seemed to
turn to water. I stood rooted to the spot, held there by a most
surprising horror.
For the gray-bearded figure of the other watcher was one I could never
forget; its benignity was associated with the most horrible hours of my
life, with deeds so dreadful that recollection to this day sometimes
breaks my sleep, arousing me in the still watches, bathed in a cold
sweat of fear.
It was Hassan of Aleppo!
If he saw me, if either of them saw me, I cannot say. What I should
have done, what I might have done it is useless to speak of here—for I
did nothing. Inert, thralled by the presence of that eerie, dreadful
being, I watched them leave the shadow of the doorway and pace slowly
on with their dignified Eastern gait.
Then, knowing how I had failed in my plain duty to my fellow-men—how,
finding a serpent in my path, I had hesitated to crush it, had weakly
succumbed to its uncanny fascination—I made my way round to the door of
the Museum.