"The man, Joseph Malaglou," he replied, "learning of the hue-and-cry

after a certain missing damsel----"

I remember I was about to light a cigar as he uttered those words, but

a dawning perception of the iniquitous truth crept poisonously into my

mind, and I threw both cigar and matches over the rail into the Shâra

Kâmel and clutched fiercely at the little table between us.

"And of the reward offered for her recovery," pursued the _imám_,

"denounced to us, one Yûssuf of Rosetta, a man owning a small house at

Shubra. Yûssuf had fled, and the only occupant of the place was the

missing damsel Mizmûna. Alas that fortune should so favor the sinful.

The abductor, the despoiler, escapes retribution; and the traitor, the

informer, the dealer in _hashish_ is rewarded."

The Turk has signally failed to rule Egypt; but there are certain

Ottoman institutions which are not without claims, as I realized at

that moment in regard to Joseph Malaglou: I was thinking,

particularly, of the bow-string.

"Already," said Abû Tabâh, with his sweet but melancholy smile, "the

heart of the Sheikh Ismail inclined toward the damsel, for whom his

soul yearned; and has not it been written that he who heals the breach

betwixt man and wife shall himself be blessed? Behold the reward of

the peace-maker--which I design as a gift to my sister."

I was unable to speak, but I became aware of a bitter taste upon my

palate as, from beneath his robe, the smiling _imám_ took out the

armlet of gold and lapis-lazuli!

IV

OMAR OF ISPAHAN

I

"I hear that the Harêm Suite is occupied," said Sir Bertram Collis,

bustling up to me as I sat smoking in the gardens of a certain Cairo

hotel, which I shall not name because of the matters that befell

there. "Daphne is full of curiosity respecting the romantic occupant."

"Don't let Lady Collis be too sure," put in Chundermeyer, "that there

is anything romantic about the occupant."

"Your definition of romance, Chundermeyer," I interrupted, "would

probably be 'a diamond the size of a Spanish onion.'"

Chundermeyer smiled, but it was a smile in which his dark eyes,

twinkling through the pebbles of horn-rimmed spectacles, played no

part. I must confess that the society of this unctuous partner in the

well-known Madras firm of Isaacs and Chundermeyer palled somewhat at

times. He, on the other hand, was eternally dropping into a chair

beside me, and proffering huge and costly cigars from a huge and

costly case. This sort of parvenu persecution is one of the penalties

of being recognized by Debrett.

"As a matter of fact," I continued, "the occupant of the Harêm Suite

is no less romantic a personage than the daughter of the Mudîr

(Governor) of the Fayûm."

"Really!" said Chundermeyer, with that sudden interest which mention

of a title always aroused in him. "Surely it is most unusual for so

highly placed a Moslem lady to reside at an hotel?"

"Most unusual," I replied. "Of course such a thing would be

inconceivable in India; but the management of this establishment, who

cater almost exclusively to tourists, find, I am told, that a 'harêm

suite' is quite a good advertisement. The reason of the presence of

this lady in the hotel is a diplomatic one. She is visiting Cairo in

order to witness the procession of Ashûra, peculiarly sacred to

Egyptian women, and it appears that, having no blood relations here,

she could not accept the hospitality of any one of the big families

without alienating the others."

"By Jove!" said Sir Bertram, "I must tell Daphne this yarn. She'll be

delighted! Come along, Kernaby; if we're to have tea at Mena House, it

is high time we were off."

I left Chundermeyer to his opulent cigar without regret. That he was

an astute man of affairs and an expert lapidary I did not doubt, for

he had offered to buy my Hatshepsu scarab ring at a price exactly ten

per cent below its trade value; but to my mind there is something

almost as unnatural about a Hindu-Hebrew as about a Græco-Welshman or

a griffin.

Of course, Daphne Collis was not ready; and, Sir Bertram going up to

their apartments to induce her to hurry, I strolled out again into the

gardens for a quiet cigarette and a cocktail. As I approached a

suitable seat in a sort of charming little arbor festooned with purple

blossom, a man who had been waiting there rose to greet me.

With a certain quickening of the pulse, I recognized Abû Tabâh,

arrayed, as was his custom, in black, only relieved by a small snowy

turban, which served to enhance the ascetic beauty of his face and the

mystery of the wonderful, liquid eyes.

He inclined his head in that gesture of gentle dignity which I knew;

and:

"I have been awaiting an opportunity of speech with you, Kernaby

Pasha," he said, in his flawless, musical English, "upon a matter in

which I hope you will consent to aid me."

Since this mysterious man, variously known as "the _imám_" and "the

Magician," but whom I knew to be some kind of secret agent of the

Egyptian Government, had recently saved me from assassination, to

decline to aid him was out of the question. We seated ourselves in the

arbor.

"I should welcome an opportunity of serving you, my friend," I assured

him, "since your services to me can never be repaid."

His lips moved slightly in the curiously tender smile which a poor

physiognomist might have mistaken for evidence of effeminacy, bending

towards me with a cautious glance about.

"You are staying at this hotel throughout the Christmas festivities?"

he asked.

"Yes; I have temporarily deserted Shepheard's in order to accept the

hospitality of Sir Bertram Collis, a very old friend. I shall probably

return on the Tuesday following Christmas Day."

"There is to be a carnival and masquerade ball here to-morrow. You

shall be present?"

"I hope so," I replied in surprise. "To what does all this tend?"

Abû Tabâh bent yet closer.

"Many of your friends and acquaintances possess valuable jewels?"

"They do."

"Then warn them--individually, in order to occasion no general

alarm--to guard these with the utmost care."

My surprise increased. "You alarm me," I said. "Are there rogues in

our midst?"

"No," answered the _imám_, fixing his melancholy gaze upon my face;

"so far as my knowledge bears me, there is but one, yet that one is

worse than a host of others."

"Do you mean that he is here--in the hotel?"

Abû Tabâh shrugged his slim shoulders.

"If I knew his exact whereabouts," he replied, "there would be no

occasion to fear him. All that I know is that he is in Cairo; and

since many richly attired women of Europe and America will be here

to-morrow night, of a surety Omar Ali Khân will be here also!"

I shook my head in perplexity.

"Omar Ali Khân?"----I began.

"Ah," continued Abû Tabâh, "to you that name conveys nothing, but to

me it signifies Omar of Ispahân, 'the Father of Thieves.' Do you

remember," fixing his strange eyes hypnotically upon me, "the theft

of the sacred _burko_ of Nefîseh?"

"Quite well," I replied hastily; since the incident represented an

unpleasant memory.

"It was Omar of Ispahân who stole it from the shrine. It was Omar of

Ispahân who stole the blue diamond of the Rajah of Bagore from the

treasure-room at Jullapore, and Omar of Ispahân"--lowering his voice

almost to a whisper--"who stole the Holy Carpet ere it reached Mecca!"

"What!" I cried. "When did that happen? I never heard of such an

episode!"

Abû Tabâh raised his long, slim hand warningly.

"Be cautious!" he whispered; "the flowers of the garden, the palms in

the grove, the very sands of the desert have ears! The lightest word

spoken in the _harêm_ of the Khedive, or breathed from a minaret of

the Citadel, is heard by Omar of Ispahân! The holy covering for the

Kaaba was restored, on payment of a ruinous ransom by the Sherîf of

Mecca, and none save the few ever knew of its loss."

For a time I was silent; words failed me; for the veil of the Kaaba,

miscalled "the Carpet," is about the size of a bowling-green; then--

"In what manner does this affair concern you, Abû Tabâh?" I asked.

"In this way: the daughter of the Mudîr el-Fáyûm is here, in order

that she may be present on the Night of Ashûra in the Mûski. For a

Moslem lady to stay in such a place as this"--there was a faint note

of contempt in the speaker's voice--"is without precedent, but the

circumstances are peculiar. The _khân_ near the Mosque of Hosein is

full, and it is not seemly that the Mudîr's daughter should live at

any lesser establishment. Therefore, as she brings her two servants,

it has been possible for her to remain here. But"--his voice sank

again--"her ornaments are famed throughout Islâm."

I nodded comprehendingly.

"To me," Abû Tabâh whispered, "has been entrusted the task of guarding

them; to you, I entrust that of guarding the possessions of the other

guests!"

I started.

"But, my friend," I said, "this is a dreadful responsibility which you

impose upon me."

"Other precautions are being taken," he replied calmly; "but you,

observing great circumspection, can speak to the guests, and, being

forewarned of his presence, can even watch for the coming of Omar of

Ispahân."

II

The effect of my news upon Lady Collis was truly dramatic.

"Oh," she cried, "my rope of pearls. Mr. Chundermeyer only told me

last week that it was worth at least two hundred pound more than I

gave for it."

Mr. Chundermeyer had made himself popular with many of the ladies in

the hotel by similar diplomatic means, but I think that if he had been

compelled to purchase at his own flattering valuations Messrs. Isaacs

and Chundermeyer would have been ruined.

"You need not wear it, my dear," said her husband tactlessly.

"Don't be so ridiculous!" she retorted. "You know I have brought my

Queen of Sheba costume for to-morrow night."

That, of course, settled the matter, so that beyond making one pretty

woman extremely nervous, my campaign against the dreaded Omar of

Ispahân had opened--blankly. Later in the day I circulated my warning

right and left, and everywhere sowed consternation without reaping any

appreciable result.

"One naturally expects thieves on these occasions," said a little

Chicago millionairess, "and if I only wore my diamonds when no rogues

were about, I might as well have none. There are crooks in America I'd

back against your Persian thief any day."

On the whole, I think, the best audience for my dramatic recitation

was provided by Mr. Chundermeyer, whom I found in the American bar,

just before the dinner hour. His yellow skin perceptibly blanched at

my first mention of Omar Ali Khân, and one hand clutched at a bulging

breast pocket of the dinner-jacket he wore.

"Good heavens, Mr. Kernaby," he said, "you alarm me--you alarm me,

sir!"

"The reputation of Omar is not unknown to you?"

"By no means unknown to me," he responded in the thick, unctuous voice

which betrayed the Semitic strain in his pedigree. "It was this man

who stole the pair of blue diamonds from the Rajah of Bagore."

"So I am told."

"But have you been told that it was my firm who bought those diamonds

for the Rajah?"

"No; that is news to me."

"It was my firm, Mr. Kernaby, who negotiated the sale of the blue

diamonds to the Rajah; therefore the particulars of their loss, under

most extraordinary circumstances, are well known to me. You have made

me very nervous. Who is your informant?"

"A member of the native police with whom I am acquainted."

Mr. Chundermeyer shook his head lugubriously.

"I am conveying a parcel of rough stones to Amsterdam," he confessed,

glancing warily about him over the rims of his spectacles, "and I feel

very much disposed to ask for more reliable protection than is offered

by your Egyptian friend."

"Why not lodge the stones in a bank, or in the manager's safe?"

He shook his head again, and proffered an enormous cigar.

"I distrust all safes but my own," he replied. "I prefer to carry such

valuables upon my person, foolish though the plan may seem to you. But

do you observe that squarely built, military looking person standing

at the bar, in conversation with M. Balabas, the manager?"

"Yes; an officer, I should judge."

"Precisely; a _police_ officer. That is Chief Inspector Carlisle of

New Scotland Yard."

"But he is a guest here."

"Certainly. The management sustained a severe loss last Christmas

during the progress of a ball at which all Cairo was present, and as

the inspector chanced to be on his way home from India, where official

business had taken him, M. Balabas induced him to break his journey

and remain until after the carnival."

"Wait a moment," I said; "I will bring him over."

Crossing to the bar, I greeted Balabas, with whom I was acquainted,

and--

"Mr. Chundermeyer and I have been discussing the notorious Omar of

Ispahân, who is said to be in Cairo," I remarked.

Inspector Carlisle, being introduced, smiled broadly.

"Mr. Balabas is very nervous about this Omar man," he replied, with

a slight Scottish accent; "but, considering that everybody has been

warned, I don't see myself that he can do much damage."

"Perhaps you would be good enough to reassure Mr. Chundermeyer,"

I suggested, "who is carrying valuables."

Chief Inspector Carlisle walked over to the table at which

Chundermeyer was seated.

"I have met your partner, sir," he said, "and I gathered that you

were on your way to Amsterdam with a parcel of rough stones; in fact,

I supposed that you had arrived there by now."

"I am fond of Cairo during the Christmas season," explained the other,

"and I broke my journey. But now I sincerely wish I were elsewhere."

"Oh, I shouldn't worry!" said the detective cheerily. "There are

enough of us on the look-out."

But Mr. Chundermeyer remained palpably uneasy.

III

The gardens of the hotel on the following night presented a fairy-like

spectacle. Lights concealed among the flower-beds, the bloom-covered

arbors, and the feathery leafage of the acacias, suffused a sort of

weird glow, suggesting the presence of a million fire-flies. Up

beneath the crowns of the lofty palms little colored electric lamps

were set, producing an illusion of supernatural fruit, whilst the

fountain had been magically converted into a cascade of fire.

In the ball-room, where the orchestra played, and a hundred mosque

lamps bathed the apartment in soft illumination, a cosmopolitan throng

danced around a giant Christmas tree, their costumes a clash of color

to have filled a theatrical producer with horror, outraging history

and linking the ages in startling fashion. Thus, St. Antony of the

Thebäid danced with Salome, the luresome daughter of Herodias; Nero's

arm was about the waist of Good Queen Bess; Charles II cantered

through a two-step with a red-haired Vestal Virgin; and the Queen of

Sheba (Daphne Collis) had no less appropriate a partner than Sherlock

Holmes.

Doubtless it was all very amusing, but, personally, I stand by my

commonplace dress-suit, having, perhaps, rather a ridiculous sense

of dignity. Inspector Carlisle also was soberly arrayed, and we had

several chats during the evening; he struck me as being a man of

considerable culture and great shrewdness.

For Abû Tabâh I looked in vain. Following our conversation on the

previous afternoon, he had vanished like a figment of a dream. I

several times saw Chundermeyer, who had elected to disguise himself

as Al-Mokanna, the Veiled Prophet of Khorassan. He seemed to be an

enthusiastic dancer, and there was no lack of partners.

But of these mandarins, pierrots, Dutch girls, monks, and court ladies

I speedily tired, and sought refuge in the gardens, whose enchanted

aspect was completed by that wondrous inverted bowl, jewel-studded,

which is the nightly glory of Egypt. In the floral, dim-lighted arbors

many romantic couples shrank from the peeping moon; but quiet and a

hushful sense of peace ruled there beneath the stars more in harmony

with my mood.

One corner of the gardens, in particular, seemed to be quite deserted,

and it was the most picturesque spot of all. For here a graceful palm

upstood before an outjutting _mushrabîyeh_ window, dimly lighted, over

which trailed a wealth of bougainvillea blossom, whilst beneath it lay

a floral carpet, sharply bisected by the shadow of the palm trunk. It

was like some gorgeous illustration to a poem by Hafiz, only lacking

the figure at the window.

And as I stood, enchanted, before the picture, the central panels of

the window were thrown open, and, as if conjured up by my imagination,

a woman appeared, looking out into the gardens--an Oriental woman,

robed in shimmering, moon-kissed white, and wearing a white _yashmak_.

Her arms and fingers were laden with glittering jewels.

I almost held my breath, drawing back into the sheltering shadow, for

I had not hitherto suspected myself of being a sorcerer. For perhaps

a minute, or less, she stood looking out, then the window closed, and

the white phantom disappeared. I recovered myself, recognizing that I

stood before the isolated wing of the hotel known as the Harêm Suite,

and that Fate had granted me a glimpse of the daughter of the Mudîr of

the Fáyûm.

Recollecting, in the nick of time, an engagement to dance with Lady

Collis, I hurried back to the ball-room. On its very threshold I

encountered Chundermeyer. I could see his spectacles glittering

through the veil of his ridiculous costume, and even before he spoke

I detected about him an aura of tragedy.

"Mr. Kernaby," he gasped, "for Heaven's sake help me to find Inspector

Carlisle! I have been robbed!"

"What?"

"My diamonds!"

"You don't mean----"

"Find the inspector, and come to my rooms. I am nearly mad!"

Daphne Collis, who had seen me enter, joined us at this moment, and,

overhearing the latter part of Chundermeyer's speech:

"Oh, whatever is the matter?" she whispered.

As for Chundermeyer the effect upon him of her sudden appearance was

positively magical. He stared through his veil as though her charming

figure had been that of some hideous phantom. Then slowly, as if he

dreaded to find her intangible, he extended one hand and touched her

rope of pearls.

"Ah, heavens!" he gasped. "I am really going mad, or is there a

magician amongst us?"

Daphne Collis's blue eyes opened very widely, and the color slowly

faded from her cheeks.

"Mr. Chundermeyer," she began. But--

"Let us go into this little recess, where there is a good light,"

mumbled Chundermeyer shakily, "and I will make sure."

The three of us entered the palm-screened alcove, Chundermeyer

leading. He stood immediately under a lamp suspended by brass chains

from the roof.

"Permit me to examine your pearls for one moment," he said.

Her hands trembling, Daphne Collis took off the costly ornament and

placed it in the hands of the greatly perturbed expert. Chundermeyer

ran the pearls through his fingers, then lifted the largest of the set

towards the light and scrutinized it closely. Suddenly he dropped his

arms, and extended the necklace upon one open palm.

"Look for yourself," he said slowly. "It does not require the eyes of

an expert."

Daphne Collis snatched the pearls and stared at them dazedly. Her

pretty face was now quite colorless.

"This is not my rope of pearls," she said, in a monotonous voice; "it

is a very poor imitation!"

Ere I could frame any kind of speech--

"Look at this," groaned Chundermeyer, "as you talk of a poor

imitation!"

He was holding out a leather-covered box, plush-lined, and bearing

within the words, "Isaacs and Chundermeyer, Madras." Nestling

grotesquely amid the blue velvet were six small pieces of coal!

Chundermeyer sank upon the cushions of the settee, tossing the casket

upon a little coffee table.

"I am afraid I feel unwell," he said feebly. "Mr. Kernaby, I wonder if

you would be so kind as to find Inspector Carlisle, and ask a waiter

to bring me some cognac."

"Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?" whispered poor Daphne Collis.

"Just remain here," I said soothingly, "with Mr. Chundermeyer." And I

induced her to sit in a big cane rest-chair. "I will return in a

moment with Bertram and the inspector."

Desiring to avoid a panic, I walked quietly into the ball-room and

took stock of the dancers, for a waltz was in progress. The inspector

I could not see, but Sir Bertram I observed at the further end of the

floor, dancing with Mrs. Van Heysten, the Chicago lady whom I had

warned to keep a close watch upon her diamonds.

I managed to attract Collis's attention, and the pair, quitting the

floor, joined me where I stood. A few words sufficed in which to

inform them of the catastrophe, and, pointing out the alcove wherein

I had left Chundermeyer and Lady Collis, I set off in search of

Inspector Carlisle.

Ten minutes later, having visited every likely spot, I came to the

conclusion that he was not in the hotel, and with M. Balabas I

returned to the alcove adjoining the ball-room. Dancing was in full

swing, and I thought as we passed along the edge of the floor how

easily I could have checked the festivities by announcing that Omar

of Ispahân was present.

The first sight to greet me upon entering the little palm-shaded

alcove was that of Mrs. Van Heysten in tears. She had discovered

herself to be wearing a very indifferent duplicate of her famous

diamond tiara.

I think it was my action of soothingly patting her upon the shoulder

that drew Chundermeyer's attention to my Hatshepsu scarab.

"Mr. Kernaby!" he cried--"Mr. Kernaby!" And pointed to my finger.

I had had the scarab set in a revolving bezel, and habitually wore it

with its beetle uppermost and the cartouche concealed. As I glanced

down at the ring, Chundermeyer stretched out his hand and detached it

from my finger. Approaching the light, he turned the bezel.

The flat part of the scarab was quite blank, bearing no inscription

whatever. Like Lady Collis's rope of pearls, Mrs. Van Heysten's tiara,

and Chundermeyer's diamonds, it was a worthless and very indifferent

duplicate!

IV

Never can I forget the scene in that crowded little room--poor M.

Balabas all anxiety respecting the reputation of his establishment,

and vainly endeavoring to reason with the victims of the amazing Omar

Khân. Finally--

"I will search for Inspector Carlisle myself," said Mr. Chundermeyer;

"and if I cannot find him, I shall be compelled to communicate with

the local police authorities."

M. Balabas still volubly protesting, the unfortunate Veiled Prophet

made his way from the alcove. I cannot say if the inspiration came as

the result of a sort of auto-hypnosis induced by staring at the worthless

ring in my hand--the stone was not even real lapis-lazuli--but a theory

regarding the manner in which these ingenious substitutions had been

effected suddenly entered my mind.

Three minutes later I was knocking at the door of Chundermeyer's room.

I received no invitation to enter, and the door was locked. I sought

M. Balabas; and, without confiding to him the theory upon which I was

acting, I urged the desirability of gaining access to the apartment.

As a result, a master key was procured, and we entered.

At the first glance the room seemed to be empty, though it showed

evidence of having recently been occupied, for it was in the utmost

disorder. Perhaps we should have quitted it unenlightened, if I had

not detected the sound of a faint groan proceeding from the closed

wardrobe. Stepping across the room, I opened the double doors, and

out into my arms fell a limp figure, bound hand and foot, and having

a bath-towel secured tightly around the head to act as a gag. It was

Mr. Chundermeyer!

I think, as I helped to unfasten him, I was the most surprised man in

the land of Egypt. He was arrayed only in a bath-robe and slippers,

and his bare wrists and ankles were cruelly galled by the cords which

had bound him. For some minutes he was unable to utter a word, and

when at last he achieved speech, his first utterance constituted a

verbal thunderbolt.

"I have been robbed!" he cried huskily. "I was sand-bagged as I came

from my bath, and look--everyone of my cases is gone!"

It was M. Balabas who answered him.

"As you returned from your _bath_, Mr. Chundermeyer?" he said. "At

what time was that?"

"About a quarter-past seven," was the amazing reply.

"But, good Heaven!" cried M. Balabas, "I was speaking to you less than

ten minutes ago!"

"You are mad!" groaned Chundermeyer, rubbing his bruised wrists. "Have

I not been locked in the wardrobe all night!"

"Ah, merciful saints," cried M. Balabas, dramatically raising his

clenched fists to heaven, "I see it all! You understand, Mr. Kernaby.

It is _not_ Mr. Chundermeyer with whom we have been conversing, in

whose hands you have been placing your valuables, it is that devil

incarnate who three years ago impersonated the Emîr al-Hadj, in order

to steal the Holy Carpet; who can impersonate anyone; who, it is said,

can transform himself at will into an old woman, a camel, or a fig

tree; it is the conjuror, the wizard--Omar of Ispahân!"

My own ideas were almost equally chaotic; for although, as I now

recalled, I had never throughout the evening obtained a thoroughly

good view of the features of the Veiled Prophet, I could have sworn

to the voice, to the carriage, to the manner of Mr. Chundermeyer.

The puzzling absence of Chief Inspector Carlisle now engaged

everybody's attention; and, acting upon the precedent afforded by the

finding of Mr. Chundermeyer, we paid a visit to the detective's room.

Inspector Carlisle, fully dressed, and still wearing a soft felt hat,

as though he had but just come in, lay on the floor, unconscious, with

the greater part of a cigar, which examination showed to be drugged,

close beside him.

* * * * *

As I entered my room that night and switched on the light, in through

the open window from the balcony stepped Abû Tabâh.

His frequent and mysterious appearances in my private apartments did

not surprise me in the least, and I had even ceased to wonder how he

accomplished them; but--

"You are too late, my friend," I said. "Omar of Ispahân has outwitted

you."

"Omar of Ispahân has outwitted men wiser than I," he replied gravely;

"but covetousness is a treacherous master, and I am not without hope

that we may yet circumvent the father of thieves."

"You are surely jesting," I replied. "In all probability he is now far

from Cairo."

"I, on the contrary, have reason to believe," replied Abû Tabâh

calmly, "that he is neither far from Cairo, far from the hotel,

nor far from this very apartment."

His manner was strange and I discovered excitement to be growing

within me.

"Accompany me on the balcony," he said; "but first extinguish the

light."

A moment later I stood looking down upon the moon-bathed gardens,

and Abû Tabâh, beside me, stretched out his hand.

"You see the projecting portion of the building yonder?"

"Yes," I replied; "the Harêm Suite."

"Immediately before the window there is a palm tree."

"I have observed it."

"And upon the opposite side of the path there is an acacia."

"Yes; I see it."

"The moon is high, and whilst all the side of the hotel is in shadow

the acacia is in the moonlight. Its branches would afford concealment,

however; and one watching there could see what would be hidden from

one on this balcony. I request you, Kernaby Pasha, to approach that

_lebbekh_ tree from the further side of the fountain, in order to

remain invisible from the hotel. Climb to one of the lower branches,

and closely watch four windows."

I stared at him in the darkness.

"Which are the four windows that I am to watch?"

"They are--one, that immediately below your own; two, that to the

right of it; three, the window above the Harêm Suite; and, four,

the extreme east window of this wing, on the first floor."

Now, my state of mystification grew even denser. For the windows

specified were, in the order of mention, that of Inspector Carlisle,

who had not yet recovered consciousness; of Mr. Chundermeyer; of

Major Redpath, a retired Anglo-Indian who had been confined to his

room for some time with an attack of malaria; and of M. Balabas,

the manager.

"For what," I inquired, "am I to watch?"

"For a man to descend."

"And then?"

"You will hold your open watch case where it is clearly visible from

this spot. Instant upon the man's appearance you will cover it up,

and then uncover it, either once, twice, thrice, or four times."

"After which?"

"Remain scrupulously concealed. Have the collar of your dinner jacket

turned up in order to betray as little whiteness as possible. Do not

interfere with the man who descends; but if he enters the Harêm Suite,

see that he does not come out again! There is no time for further

explanation, Kernaby Pasha; it is Omar of Ispahân with whom we have

to deal!"

V

Perched up amid the foliage of the acacia, I commenced that singular

guard imposed upon me by Abû Tabâh. Did he suspect one of these four

persons of being the notorious Omar? Or had his mysterious

instructions some other significance? The problem defied me; and,

recognizing that I was hopelessly at sea, I abandoned useless

conjecture and merely watched.

Nor was my vigil a long one. I doubt if I had been at my post for ten

minutes ere a vague figure appeared upon the shadow-veiled balcony of

one of the suspected windows--that of Major Redpath, above the Harêm

Suite!

Scarcely daring to credit my eyes, I saw the figure throw down on to

the projecting top of the _mushrabîyeh_ window below a slender rope

ladder. I covered the gleaming gold of my watch-case with my hand, and

gave the signal--_three_.

The spirit of phantasy embraced me; and, unmoved to further surprise,

I watched the unknown swarm down the ladder with the agility of an

ape. He seemed to wear a robe, surely that of the _Veiled Prophet_!

He silently manipulated one of the side-panels of the window, opened

it, and vanished within the Harêm Suite.

Raising my eyes, I beheld a second figure--that of Abû

Tabâh--descending a similar ladder to the balcony of Inspector

Carlisle's room. He gained the balcony and entered the room. Four

seconds elapsed; he reappeared, unfurled a greater length of ladder,

and came down to the flower-beds. Lithely as a cat he came to the

projecting _mushrabîyeh_, swung himself aloft, and as I watched

breathlessly, expecting him to enter in pursuit of the intruder,

climbed to the top and began to mount the ladder descending from

Major Redpath's room!

He had just reached the major's balcony, and was stepping through

the open window, when a most alarming din arose in the Harêm Suite;

evidently a fierce struggle was proceeding in the apartments of the

Mudîr's daughter!

I scrambled down from the acacia and ran to the spot immediately below

the window, arriving at the very moment that the central lattice was

thrown open, and a white-veiled figure appeared there and prepared to

spring down! Perceiving my approach:

"Oh, help me, in the name of Allah!" cried the woman, in a voice

shrill with fear. "Quick--catch me!"

Ere I could frame any reply, she clutched at the palm tree and dropped

down right into my extended arms, as a crashing of overturned

furniture came from the room above.

"Help them!" she entreated. "You are armed, and my women are being

murdered."

"Help, Kernaby Pasha!" now reached my ears, in the unmistakable voice

of Abû Tabâh, from somewhere within. "See that he does not escape from

the window!"

"Coming!" I cried.

And, by means of the palm trunk, I began to mount towards the open

lattice.

Gaining my objective, I stumbled into a room which presented a scene

of the wildest disorder. It was a large apartment, well but sparsely

furnished in the Eastern manner, and lighted by three hanging lamps.

Directly under one of these, beside an overturned cabinet of richly

carven wood inlaid with mother-o'-pearl, lay a Nubian, insensible,

and arrayed only in shirt and trousers. There was no one else in the

room, and, not pausing to explore those which opened out of it, I ran

and unbolted the heavy door upon which Abû Tabâh was clamoring for

admittance.

The _imám_ leaped into the room, rebolted the door, and glanced to

the right and left; then he ran into the adjoining apartments, and

finally, observing the insensible Nubian upon the floor, he stared

into my face, and I read anger in the eyes that were wont to be so

gentle.

"Did I not enjoin you to prevent his escape from the window?" he

cried.

"No one escaped from the window, my friend," I retorted, "except

the lady who was occupying the suite."

Abû Tabâh fixed his weird eyes upon me in a hypnotic stare of such

uncanny power that I was angrily conscious of much difficulty in

sustaining it; but gradually the quelling look grew less harsh, and

finally his whole expression softened, and that sweet smile, which

could so transform his face, disturbed the severity of the set lips.

"No man is infallible," he said. "And wiser than you or I have shown

themselves the veriest fools in contest with Omar Ali Khân. But know,

O Kernaby Pasha, that the lady who occupied this suite secretly left

it at sunset to-night, bearing her jewels with her, and he"--pointing

to the insensible Nubian on the floor--"took her place and wore her

raiment----"

"Then the Mudîr's daughter----"

"Is my sister Ayesha!"

I looked at him reproachfully, but he met my gaze with calm pride.

"Subterfuge was permitted by the Prophet, (on whom be peace)," he

continued; "but not lying! My sister _is_ the daughter of the Mudîr

el-Fáyûm."

It was a rebuke, perhaps a merited one; and I accepted it in silence.

Although, from the moment that I had first set eyes on him, I had

never doubted Abû Tabâh to be a man of good family, this modest avowal

was something of a revelation.

"Her presence here, which was permitted by my father," he said, "was a

trap; for it is well known throughout the Moslem world that she is the

possessor of costly ornaments. The trap succeeded. Omar of Ispahân, at

great risk of discovery, remained to steal her jewels, although he had

already amassed a choice collection."

Someone had begun to bang upon the bolted door, and there was an

excited crowd beneath the window.

"You supposed, no doubt," the _imám_ resumed calmly, "that I suspected

Major Redpath and M. Balabas, as well as Mr. Chundermeyer and the

English detective? It was not so. But I regarded the room of M.

Balabas as excellently situated for Omar's purpose, and I knew that M.

Balabas rarely retired earlier than one o'clock. Even more suitable

was that of Major Redpath, whose illness I believe to have been due to

some secret art of Omar's."

"But he is down with chronic malaria!"

"It may even be so; yet I believe the attack to have been induced by

Omar of Ispahân."

"But why?"

"Because, as I learned to-night, Major Redpath is the only person in

Cairo who has ever met Mr. Chundermeyer! I will confess that until

less than an hour ago I did not know if Inspector Carlisle was

_really_ an inspector! Oh, it is a seeming absurdity; but Omar of

Ispahân is a wizard! Therefore I entered the inspector's room, and

found him to be still unconscious. Major Redpath was in deep slumber,

and Omar had entered and quitted his room without disturbing him. I

did likewise, and visited Mr. Chundermeyer's--the door was ajar--on

my way downstairs."

"But, my friend," I said amazedly, "with my own eyes I beheld Mr.

Chundermeyer gagged and bound in his wardrobe! I saw his bruised

wrists!"

"He gagged, bound, and bruised himself!" replied Abû Tabâh calmly.

"With my own eyes I once beheld a blind mendicant hanging by the neck

from a fig tree, a bloody froth upon his lips. I cut him down and left

him for dead. Yet was he neither dead nor a blind mendicant; he was

Omar Ali Khân! Oblige me by opening the door, Kernaby Pasha."

I obeyed, and an excited throng burst in, headed by M. Balabas and

Inspector Carlisle, the latter looking very pale and haggard!

"Where is the man posing as Chundermeyer?" began the detective

hoarsely. "By sheer sleight-of-hand, and under ye're very

noses"--excitement rendered him weirdly Caledonian--"he has robbed

ye! I cabled Madras to-day, and the real Chundermeyer arrived at

Amsterdam last Friday! As I returned with the reply cable in my pocket

to-night I became so dizzy I was only just able to get to my room.

He'd doctored every smoke in my case! Where is he?"

"I assisted him to escape, disguised as a woman, some ten minutes

ago," I replied feebly. "I should be sincerely indebted to you if

you would kick me."

"Escaped!" roared Inspector Carlisle. "Then what are ye doing here?

Pursue him, somebody! Are ye all mad?"

"We should be," said Abû Tabâh, "to attempt pursuit. As well pursue

the shadow of a cloud, the first spear of sunrise, or the phantom

heifer of Pepi-Ankh, as pursue Omar of Ispahân! He is gone--but

empty-handed. Behold what I recovered from 'Mr. Chundermeyer's' room."

From beneath his black _gibbeh_ he took out a leather bag, opened it,

and displayed to our startled eyes the tiara of Mrs. Van Heysten, the

rope of pearls, and--my Hatshepsu scarab!

Ere anyone could utter a word, Abû Tabâh inclined his head in

dignified salutation, turned, and walked stately from the room.

V

BREATH OF ALLAH

I

For close upon a week I had been haunting the purlieus of the Mûski,

attired as a respectable dragoman, my face and hands reduced to a

deeper shade of brown by means of a water-color paint (I had to use

something that could be washed off and grease-paint is useless for

purposes of actual disguise) and a neat black moustache fixed to my

lip with spirit-gum. In his story _Beyond the Pale_, Rudyard Kipling

has trounced the man who inquires too deeply into native life; but if

everybody thought with Kipling we should never have had a Lane or a

Burton and I should have continued in unbroken scepticism regarding

the reality of magic. Whereas, because of the matters which I am about

to set forth, for ten minutes of my life I found myself a trembling

slave of the unknown.

Let me explain at once that my undignified masquerade was not prompted

by mere curiosity or the quest of the pomegranate, it was undertaken

as the natural sequel to a letter received from Messrs. Moses, Murphy

and Co., the firm which I represented in Egypt, containing curious

matters affording much food for reflection. "We would ask you," ran

the communication, "to renew your inquiries into the particular

composition of the perfume 'Breath of Allah,' of which you obtained

us a sample at a cost which we regarded as excessive. It appears to

consist in the blending of certain obscure essential oils and

gum-resins; and the nature of some of these has defied analysis to

date. Over a hundred experiments have been made to discover

substitutes for the missing essences, but without success; and as

we are now in a position to arrange for the manufacture of Oriental

perfume on an extensive scale we should be prepared to make it _well

worth your while_ (the last four words characteristically underlined

in red ink) if you could obtain for us a correct copy of the original

prescription."

The letter went on to say that it was proposed to establish a separate

company for the exploitation of the new perfume, with a registered

address in Cairo and a "manufactory" in some suitably inaccessible

spot in the Near East.

I pondered deeply over these matters. The scheme was a good one and

could not fail to reap considerable profits; for, given extensive

advertising, there is always a large and monied public for a new

smell. The particular blend of liquid fragrance to which the letter

referred was assured of a good sale at a high price, not alone in

Egypt, but throughout the capitals of the world, provided it could

be put upon the market; but the proposition of manufacture was beset

with extraordinary difficulties.

The tiny vial which I had despatched to Birmingham nearly twelve

months before had cost me close upon £100 to procure, for the reason

that "Breath of Allah" was the secret property of an old and

aristocratic Egyptian family whose great wealth and exclusiveness

rendered them unapproachable. By dint of diligent inquiry I had

discovered the _attár_ to whom was entrusted certain final processes

in the preparation of the perfume--only to learn that he was ignorant

of its exact composition. But although he had assured me (and I did

not doubt his word) that not one grain had hitherto passed out of

the possession of the family, I had succeeded in procuring a small

quantity of the precious fluid.

Messrs. Moses, Murphy and Co. had made all the necessary arrangements

for placing it upon the market, only to learn, as this eventful letter

advised me, that the most skilled chemists whose services were

obtainable had failed to analyse it.

One morning, then, in my assumed character, I was proceeding along

the Shâria el-Hamzâwi seeking for some scheme whereby I might win

the confidence of Mohammed er-Rahmân the _attár_, or perfumer. I had

quitted the house in the Darb el-Ahmar which was my base of operations

but a few minutes earlier, and as I approached the corner of the

street a voice called from a window directly above my head: "Saïd!

Saïd!"

Without supposing that the call referred to myself, I glanced up,

and met the gaze of an old Egyptian of respectable appearance who

was regarding me from above. Shading his eyes with a gnarled hand--

"Surely," he cried, "it is none other than Saïd the nephew of Yûssuf

Khalig! _Es-selâm 'aleykûm, Saïd!_"

"_Aleykûm, es-selâm_," I replied, and stood there looking up at him.

"Would you perform a little service for me, Saïd?" he continued.

"It will occupy you but an hour and you may earn five piastres."

"Willingly," I replied, not knowing to what the mistake of this

evidently half-blind old man might lead me.

I entered the door and mounted the stairs to the room in which he

was, to find that he lay upon a scantily covered _dîwan_ by the open

window.

"Praise be to Allah (whose name be exalted)!" he exclaimed, "that I am

thus fortunately enabled to fulfil my obligations. I sometimes suffer

from an old serpent bite, my son, and this morning it has obliged me

to abstain from all movement. I am called Abdûl the Porter, of whom you

will have heard your uncle speak; and although I have long retired from

active labor myself, I contract for the supply of porters and carriers

of all descriptions and for all purposes; conveying fair ladies to the

_hammám_, youth to the bridal, and death to the grave. Now, it was

written that you should arrive at this timely hour."

I considered it highly probable that it was also written how I should

shortly depart if this garrulous old man continued to inflict upon me

details of his absurd career. However--

"I have a contract with the merchant, Mohammed er-Rahmân of the Sûk

el-Attârin," he continued, "which it has always been my custom

personally to carry out."

The words almost caused me to catch my breath; and my opinion of Abdul

the Porter changed extraordinary. Truly my lucky star had guided my

footsteps that morning!

"Do not misunderstand me," he added. "I refer not to the transport of

his wares to Suez, to Zagazig, to Mecca, to Aleppo, to Baghdad,

Damascus, Kandahar, and Pekin; although the whole of these vast

enterprises is entrusted to none other than the only son of my father:

I speak, now, of the bearing of a small though heavy box from the

great magazine and manufactory of Mohammed er-Rahmân at Shubra, to his

shop in the Sûk el-Attârin, a matter which I have arranged for him on

the eve of the Molid en-Nebi (birthday of the Prophet) for the past

five-and-thirty years. Every one of my porters to whom I might entrust

this special charge is otherwise employed; hence my observation that

it was written how none other than yourself should pass beneath this

window at a certain fortunate hour."

Fortunate indeed had that hour been for me, and my pulse beat far from

normally as I put the question: "Why, O Father Abdul, do you attach so

much importance to this seemingly trivial matter?"

The face of Abdul the Porter, which resembled that of an intelligent

mule, assumed an expression of low cunning.

"The question is well conceived," he said, raising a long forefinger

and wagging it at me. "And who in all Cairo knows so much of the

secrets of the great as Abdul the Know-all, Abdul the Taciturn! Ask

me of the fabled wealth of Karafa Bey and I will name you every one

of his possessions and entertain you with a calculation of his income,

which I have worked out in _nûss-faddah_![B] Ask me of the amber mole

upon the shoulder of the Princess Azîza and I will describe it to you

in such a manner as to ravish your soul! Whisper, my son"--he bent

towards me confidentially--"once a year the merchant Mohammed

er-Rahmân prepares for the Lady Zuleyka a quantity of the perfume

which impious tradition has called 'Breath of Allah.' The father of

Mohammed er-Rahmân prepared it for the mother of the Lady Zuleyka and

his father before him for the lady of that day who held the

secret--the secret which has belonged to the women of this family

since the reign of the Khalîf el-Hakîm from whose favorite wife they

are descended. To her, the wife of the Khalîf, the first _dirhem_

(drachm) ever distilled of the perfume was presented in a gold vase,

together with the manner of its preparation, by the great wizard and

physician Ibn Sina of Bokhara" (Avicenna).

[B] A _nûss-faddah_ equals a quarter of a farthing.

"You are well called Abdul the Know-all!" I cried in admiration. "Then

the secret is held by Mohammed er-Rahmân?"

"Not so, my son," replied Abdul. "Certain of the essences employed are

brought, in sealed vessels, from the house of the Lady Zuleyka, as is

also the brass coffer containing the writing of Ibn Sina; and

throughout the measuring of the quantities, the secret writing never

leaves her hand."

"What, the Lady Zuelyka attends in person?"

Abdul the Porter inclined his head serenely.

"On the eve of the birthday of the Prophet, the Lady Zuelyka visits

the shop of Mohammed er-Rahmân, accompanied by an _imám_ from one of

the great mosques."

"Why by an _imám_, Father Abdul?"

"There is a magical ritual which must be observed in the distillation

of the perfume, and each essence is blessed in the name of one of the

four archangels; and the whole operation must commence at the hour of

midnight on the eve of the Molid en-Nebi."

He peered at me triumphantly.

"Surely," I protested, "an experienced _attár_ such as Mohammed

er-Rahmân would readily recognize these secret ingredients by their

smell?"

"A great pan of burning charcoal," whispered Abdul dramatically, "is

placed upon the floor of the room, and throughout the operation the

attendant _imám_ casts pungent spices upon it, whereby the nature of

the secret essences is rendered unrecognizable. It is time you depart,

my son, to the shop of Mohammed, and I will give you a writing making

you known to him. Your task will be to carry the materials necessary

for the secret operation (which takes place to-night) from the

magazine of Mohammed er-Rahmân at Shubra, to his shop in the Sûk

el-Attârin. My eyesight is far from good, Saïd. Do you write as I

direct and I will place my name to the letter."

II

The words "well worth your while" had kept time to my steps, or I

doubt if I should have survived the odious journey from Shubra. Never

can I forget the shape, color, and especially the weight, of the

locked chest which was my burden. Old Mohammed er-Rahmân had accepted

my service on the strength of the letter signed by Abdul, and of

course, had failed to recognize in "Saïd" that Hon. Neville Kernaby

who had certain confidential dealings with him a year before. But

exactly how I was to profit by the fortunate accident which had led

Abdul to mistake me for someone called "Saïd" became more and more

obscure as the box grew more and more heavy. So that by the time that

I actually arrived with my burden at the entrance to the Street of the

Perfumers, my heart had hardened towards Abdul the Know-all; and,

setting my box upon the ground, I seated myself upon it to rest and

to imprecate at leisure that silent cause of my present exhaustion.

After a time my troubled spirit grew calmer, as I sat there inhaling

the insidious breath of Tonquin musk, the fragrance of attár of roses,

the sweetness of Indian spikenard and the stinging pungency of myrrh,

opoponax, and ihlang-ylang. Faintly I could detect the perfume which

I have always counted the most exquisite of all save one--that

delightful preparation of Jasmine peculiarly Egyptian. But the mystic

breath of frankincense and erotic fumes of ambergris alike left me

unmoved; for amid these odors, through which it has always seemed to

me that that of cedar runs thematically, I sought in vain for any hint

of "Breath of Allah."

Fashionable Europe and America were well represented as usual in the

Sûk el-Attârin, but the little shop of Mohammed er-Rahmân was quite

deserted, although he dealt in the most rare essences of all.

Mohammed, however, did not seek Western patronage, nor was there in

the heart of the little white-bearded merchant any envy of his

seemingly more prosperous neighbors in whose shops New York, London,

and Paris smoked amber-scented cigarettes, and whose wares were

carried to the uttermost corners of the earth. There is nothing more

illusory than the outward seeming of the Eastern merchant. The

wealthiest man with whom I was acquainted in the Muski had the aspect

of a mendicant; and whilst Mohammed's neighbors sold phials of essence

and tiny boxes of pastilles to the patrons of Messrs. Cook, were not

the silent caravans following the ancient desert routes laden with

great crates of sweet merchandise from the manufactory at Shubra? To

the city of Mecca alone Mohammed sent annually perfumes to the value

of two thousand pounds sterling; he manufactured three kinds of

incense exclusively for the royal house of Persia; and his wares were

known from Alexandria to Kashmîr, and prized alike in Stambûl and

Tartary. Well might he watch with tolerant smile the more showy

activities of his less fortunate competitors.

The shop of Mohammed er-Rahmân was at the end of the street remote

from the Hamzâwi (Cloth Bazaar), and as I stood up to resume my labors

my mood of gloomy abstraction was changed as much by a certain

atmosphere of expectancy--I cannot otherwise describe it--as by the

familiar smells of the place. I had taken no more than three paces

onward into the Sûk ere it seemed to me that all business had suddenly

become suspended; only the Western element of the throng remained

outside whatever influence had claimed the Orientals. Then presently

the visitors, also becoming aware of this expectant hush as I had

become aware of it, turned almost with one accord, and following the

direction of the merchants' glances, gazed up the narrow street

towards the Mosque of el-Ashraf.

And here I must chronicle a curious circumstance. Of the Imám Abû

Tabâh I had seen nothing for several weeks, but at this moment I

suddenly found myself thinking of that remarkable man. Whilst any

mention of his name, or nickname--for I could not believe "Tabâh" to

be patronymic--amongst the natives led only to pious ejaculations

indicative of respectful fear, by the official world he was tacitly

disowned. Yet I had indisputable evidence to show that few doors in

Cairo, or indeed in all Egypt, were closed to him; he came and went

like a phantom. I should never have been surprised, on entering my

private apartments at Shepheard's, to have found him seated therein,

nor did I question the veracity of a native acquaintance who assured

me that he had met the mysterious _imám_ in Aleppo on the same morning

that a letter from his partner in Cairo had arrived mentioning a visit

by Abû Tabâh to el-Azhar. But throughout the native city he was known

as the Magician and was very generally regarded as a master of the

_ginn_. Once more depositing my burden upon the ground, then, I gazed

with the rest in the direction of the mosque.

It was curious, that moment of perfumed silence, and my imagination,

doubtless inspired by the memory of Abû Tabâh, was carried back to the

days of the great _khalîfs_, which never seem far removed from one in

those mediæval streets. I was transported to the Cairo of Harûn al

Raschîd, and I thought that the Grand Wazîr on some mission from

Baghdad was visiting the Sûk el-Attârin.

Then, stately through the silent group, came a black-robed,

white-turbaned figure outwardly similar to many others in the bazaar,

but followed by two tall muffled negroes. So still was the place that

I could hear the tap of his ebony stick as he strode along the centre

of the street.

At the shop of Mohammed er-Rahmân he paused, exchanging a few words

with the merchant, then resumed his way, coming down the Sûk towards

me. His glance met mine, as I stood there beside the box; and, to my

amazement, he saluted me with smiling dignity and passed on. Had he,

too, mistaken me for Saïd--or had his all-seeing gaze detected beneath

my disguise the features of Neville Kernaby?

As he turned out of the narrow street into the Hamzâwi, the commercial

uproar was resumed instantly, so that save for this horrible doubt

which had set my heart beating with uncomfortable rapidity, by all the

evidences now about me his coming might have been a dream.

III

Filled with misgivings, I carried the box along to the shop; but

Mohammed er-Rahmân's greeting held no hint of suspicion.

"By fleetness of foot thou shalt never win Paradise," he said.

"Nor by unseemly haste shall I thrust others from the path,"

I retorted.

"It is idle to bandy words with any acquaintance of Abdul the

Porter's," sighed Mohammed; "well do I know it. Take up the box

and follow me."

With a key which he carried attached to a chain about his waist,

he unlocked the ancient door which alone divided his shop from the

outjutting wall marking a bend in the street. A native shop is usually

nothing more than a double cell; but descending three stone steps,

I found myself in one of those cellar-like apartments which are not

uncommon in this part of Cairo. Windows there were none, if I except

a small square opening, high up in one of the walls, which evidently

communicated with the narrow courtyard separating Mohammed's

establishment from that of his neighbor, but which admitted scanty

light and less ventilation. Through this opening I could see what

looked like the uplifted shafts of a cart. From one of the rough

beams of the rather lofty ceiling a brass lamp hung by chains, and

a quantity of primitive chemical paraphernalia littered the place;

old-fashioned alembics, mysterious looking jars, and a sort of

portable furnace, together with several tripods and a number of large,

flat brass pans gave the place the appearance of some old alchemist's

den. A rather handsome ebony table, intricately carved and inlaid with

mother-o'-pearl and ivory, stood before a cushioned _dîwan_ which

occupied that side of the room in which was the square window.

"Set the box upon the floor," directed Mohammed, "but not with such

undue dispatch as to cause thyself to sustain an injury."

That he had been eagerly awaiting the arrival of the box and was now

burningly anxious to witness my departure, grew more and more apparent

with every word. Therefore--

"There are asses who are fleet of foot," I said, leisurely depositing

my load at his feet; "but the wise man regulateth his pace in

accordance with three things: the heat of the sun; the welfare of

others; and the nature of his burden."

"That thou hast frequently paused on the way from Shubra to reflect

upon these three things," replied Mohammed, "I cannot doubt; depart,

therefore, and ponder them at leisure, for I perceive that thou art

a great philosopher."

"Philosophy," I continued, seating myself upon the box, "sustaineth

the mind, but the activity of the mind being dependent upon the

welfare of the stomach, even the philosopher cannot afford to labor

without hire."

At that, Mohammed er-Rahmân unloosed upon me a long pent-up torrent of

invective--and furnished me with the information which I was seeking.

"O son of a wall-eyed mule!" he cried, shaking his fists over me, "no

longer will I suffer thy idiotic chatter! Return to Abdul the Porter,

who employed thee, for not one _faddah_ will I give thee, calamitous

mongrel that thou art! Depart! for I was but this moment informed that

a lady of high station is about to visit me. Depart! lest she mistake

my shop for a pigsty."

But even as he spoke the words, I became aware of a vague disturbance

in the street, and--

"Ah!" cried Mohammed, running to the foot of the steps and gazing

upwards, "now am I utterly undone! Shame of thy parents that thou

art, it is now unavoidable that the Lady Zuleyka shall find thee

in my shop. Listen, offensive insect--thou art Saïd, my assistant.

Utter not one word; or with this"--to my great alarm he produced

a dangerous-looking pistol from beneath his robe--"will I blow a

hole through thy vacuous skull!"

Hastily concealing the pistol, he went hurrying up the steps, in time

to perform a low salutation before a veiled woman who was accompanied

by a Sûdanese servant-girl and a negro. Exchanging some words with her

which I was unable to detect, Mohammed er-Rahmân led the way down into

the apartment wherein I stood, followed by the lady, who in turn was

followed by her servant. The negro remained above. Perceiving me as

she entered, the lady, who was attired with extraordinary elegance,

paused, glancing at Mohammed.

"My lady," he began immediately, bowing before her, "it is Saïd my

assistant, the slothfulness of whose habits is only exceeded by the

impudence of his conversation."

She hesitated, bestowing upon me a glance of her beautiful eyes.

Despite the gloom of the place and the _yashmak_ which she wore, it

was manifest that she was good to look upon. A faint but exquisite

perfume stole to my nostrils, whereby I knew that Mohammed's charming

visitor was none other than, the Lady Zuleyka.

"Yet," she said softly, "he hath the look of an active young man."

"His activity," replied the scent merchant, "resideth entirely in

his tongue."

The Lady Zuleyka seated herself upon the _dîwan_, looking all about

the apartment.

"Everything is in readiness, Mohammed?" she asked.

"Everything, my lady."

Again the beautiful eyes were turned in my direction, and, as their

inscrutable gaze rested upon me, a scheme--which, since it was never

carried out, need not be described--presented itself to my mind.

Following a brief but eloquent silence--for my answering glances were

laden with significance:--

"O Mohammed," said the Lady Zuleyka indolently, "in what manner doth

a merchant, such as thyself, chastise his servants when their conduct

displeaseth him?"

Mohammed er-Rahmân seemed somewhat at a loss for a reply, and stood

there staring foolishly.

"I have whips for mine," murmured the soft voice. "It is an old custom

of my family."

Slowly she cast her eyes in my direction once more.

"It seemed to me, O Saïd," she continued, gracefully resting one

jeweled hand upon the ebony table, "that thou hadst presumed to cast

love-glances upon me. There is one waiting above whose duty it is to

protect me from such insults. Miska!"--to the servant girl--"summon

El-Kimri (The Dove)."

Whilst I stood there dumbfounded and abashed the girl called up the

steps:

"El-Kimri! Come hither!"

Instantly there burst into the room the form of that hideous negro

whom I had glimpsed above; and--

"O Kimri," directed the Lady Zuleyka, and languidly extended her hand

in my direction, "throw this presumptuous clown into the street!"

My discomfiture had proceeded far enough, and I recognized that, at

whatever risk of discovery, I must act instantly. Therefore, at the

moment that El-Kimri reached the foot of the steps, I dashed my left

fist into his grinning face, putting all my weight behind the blow,

which I followed up with a short right, utterly outraging the

pugilistic proprieties, since it was well below the belt. El-Kimri bit

the dust to the accompaniment of a human discord composed of three

notes--and I leaped up the steps, turned to the left, and ran off

around the Mosque of el-Ashraf, where I speedily lost myself in the

crowded Ghurîya.

Beneath their factitious duskiness my cheeks were burning hotly: I was

ashamed of my execrable artistry. For a druggist's assistant does not

lightly make love to a duchess!

IV

I spent the remainder of the forenoon at my house in the Darb el-Ahmar

heaping curses upon my own fatuity and upon the venerable head of

Abdul the Know-all. At one moment it seemed to me that I had wantonly

destroyed a golden opportunity, at the next that the seeming

opportunity had been a mere mirage. With the passing of noon and the

approach of evening I sought desperately for a plan, knowing that if

I failed to conceive one by midnight, another chance of seeing the

famous prescription would probably not present itself for twelve

months.

At about four o'clock in the afternoon came the dawn of a hazy idea,

and since it necessitated a visit to my rooms at Shepheard's, I washed

the paint off my face and hands, changed, hurried to the hotel, ate a

hasty meal, and returned to the Darb el-Ahmar, where I resumed my

disguise.

There are some who have criticized me harshly in regard to my

commercial activities at this time, and none of my affairs has

provoked greater acerbitude than that of the perfume called "Breath

of Allah." Yet I am at a loss to perceive wherein my perfidy lay; for

my outlook is sufficiently socialistic to cause me to regard with

displeasure the conserving by an individual of something which,

without loss to himself, might reasonably be shared by the community.

For this reason I have always resented the way in which the Moslem

veils the faces of the pearls of his _harêm_. And whilst the success

of my present enterprise would not render the Lady Zuleyka the poorer,

it would enrich and beautify the world by delighting the senses of men

with a perfume more exquisite than any hitherto known.

Such were my reflections as I made my way through the dark and

deserted bazaar quarter, following the Shâria el-Akkadi to the Mosque

of el-Ashraf. There I turned to the left in the direction of the

Hamzâwi, until, coming to the narrow alley opening from it into the

Sûk el-Attârin, I plunged into its darkness, which was like that of

a tunnel, although the upper parts of the houses above were silvered

by the moon.

I was making for that cramped little courtyard adjoining the shop of

Mohammed er-Rahmân in which I had observed the presence of one of

those narrow high-wheeled carts peculiar to the district, and as the

entrance thereto from the Sûk was closed by a rough wooden fence I

anticipated little difficult in gaining access. Yet there was one

difficulty which I had not foreseen, and which I had not met with had

I arrived, as I might easily have arranged to do, a little earlier.

Coming to the corner of the Street of the Perfumers, I cautiously

protruded my head in order to survey the prospect.

Abû Tabâh was standing immediately outside the shop of Mohammed

er-Rahmân!

My heart gave a great leap as I drew back into the shadow, for I

counted his presence of evil omen to the success of my enterprise.

Then, a swift revelation, the truth burst in upon my mind. He was

there in the capacity of _imám_ and attendant magician at the mystical

"Blessing of the perfumes"! With cautious tread I retraced my steps,

circled round the Mosque and made for the narrow street which runs

parallel with that of the Perfumers and into which I knew the

courtyard beside Mohammed's shop must open. What I did not know was

how I was going to enter it from that end.

I experienced unexpected difficulty in locating the place, for the

height of the buildings about me rendered it impossible to pick up

any familiar landmark. Finally, having twice retraced my steps, I

determined that a door of old but strong workmanship set in a high,

thick wall must communicate with the courtyard; for I could see no

other opening to the right, or left through which it would have been

possible for a vehicle to pass.

Mechanically I tried the door, but, as I had anticipated, found it to

be securely locked. A profound silence reigned all about me and there

was no window in sight from which my operations could be observed.

Therefore, having planned out my route, I determined to scale the

wall. My first foothold was offered by the heavy wooden lock which

projected fully six inches from the door. Above it was a crossbeam and

then a gap of several inches between the top of the gate and the arch

into which it was built. Above the arch projected an iron rod from

which depended a hook; and if I could reach the bar it would be

possible to get astride the wall.

I reached the bar successfully, and although it proved to be none too

firmly fastened, I took the chance and without making very much noise

found myself perched aloft and looking down into the little court. A

sigh of relief escaped me; for the narrow cart with its

disproportionate wheels stood there as I had seen it in the morning,

its shafts pointing gauntly upward to where the moon of the Prophet's

nativity swam in a cloudless sky. A dim light shone out from the

square window of Mohammed er-Rahmân's cellar.

Having studied the situation very carefully, I presently perceived to

my great satisfaction that whilst the tail of the cart was wedged

under a crossbar, which retained it in its position, one of the

shafts was in reach of my hand. Thereupon I entrusted my weight to the

shaft, swinging out over the well of the courtyard. So successful was

I that only a faint creaking sound resulted; and I descended into the

vehicle almost silently.

Having assured myself that my presence was undiscovered by Abû Tabâh,

I stood up cautiously, my hands resting upon the wall, and peered

through the little window into the room. Its appearance had changed

somewhat. The lamp was lighted and shed a weird and subdued

illumination upon a rough table placed almost beneath it. Upon this

table were scales, measures, curiously shaped flasks, and odd-looking

chemical apparatus which might have been made in the days of Avicenna

himself. At one end of the table stood an alembic over a little pan in

which burnt a spirituous flame. Mohammed er-Rahmân was placing

cushions upon the _dîwan_ immediately beneath me, but there was no one

else in the room. Glancing upward, I noted that the height of the

neighboring building prevented the moonlight from penetrating into the

courtyard, so that my presence could not be detected by means of any

light from without; and, since the whole of the upper part of the room

was shadowed, I saw little cause for apprehension within.

At this moment came the sound of a car approaching along the Shâria

esh-Sharawâni. I heard it stop, near the Mosque of el-Ashraf, and in

the almost perfect stillness of those tortuous streets from which by

day arises a very babel of tongues I heard approaching footsteps. I

crouched down in the cart, as the footsteps came nearer, passed the

end of the courtyard abutting on the Street of the Perfumers, and

paused before the shop of Mohammed er-Rahmân. The musical voice of

Abû Tabâh spoke and that of the Lady Zuleyka answered. Came a loud

rapping, and the creak of an opening door: then--

"Descend the steps, place the coffer on the table, and then remain

immediately outside the door," continued the imperious voice of the

lady. "Make sure that there are no eavesdroppers."

Faintly through the little window there reached my ears a sound as of

some heavy object being placed upon a wooden surface, then a muffled

disturbance as of several persons entering the room; finally, the

muffled bang of a door closed and barred ... and soft footsteps in

the adjoining street!

Crouching down in the cart and almost holding my breath, I watched

through a hole in the side of the ramshackle vehicle that fence to

which I have already referred as closing the end of the courtyard

which adjoined the Sûk el-Attârin. A spear of moonlight, penetrating

through some gap in the surrounding buildings, silvered its extreme

edge. To an accompaniment of much kicking and heavy breathing, into

this natural limelight arose the black countenance of "The Dove."

To my unbounded joy I perceived that his nose was lavishly decorated

with sticking-plaster and that his right eye was temporarily off duty.

Eight fat fingers clutching at the top of the woodwork, the bloated

negro regarded the apparently empty yard for a space of some three

seconds, ere lowering his ungainly bulk to the level of the street

again. Followed a faint "pop" and a gurgling quite unmistakable. I

heard him walking back to the door, as I cautiously stood up and

again surveyed the interior of the room.

V

Egypt, as the earliest historical records show, has always been a land

of magic, and according to native belief it is to-day the theater of

many super-natural dramas. For my own part, prior to the episode which

I am about to relate, my personal experiences of the kind had been

limited and unconvincing. That Abû Tabâh possessed a sort of uncanny

power akin to second sight I knew, but I regarded it merely as a form

of telepathy. His presence at the preparation of the secret perfume

did not surprise me, for a belief in the efficacy of magical

operations prevailed, as I was aware, even among the more cultured

Moslems. My scepticism, however, was about to be rudely shaken.

As I raised my head above the ledge of the window and looked into the

room, I perceived the Lady Zuleyka seated on the cushioned _dîwan_,

her hands resting upon an open roll of parchment which lay upon the

table beside a massive brass chest of antique native workmanship. The

lid of the chest was raised, and the interior seemed to be empty, but

near it upon the table I observed a number of gold-stoppered vessels

of Venetian glass and each of which was of a different color.

Beside a brazier wherein glowed a charcoal fire, Abû Tabâh stood;

and into the fire he cast alternately strips of paper bearing writing

of some sort and little dark brown pastilles which he took from

a sandalwood box set upon a sort of tripod beside him. They were

composed of some kind of aromatic gum in which benzoin seemed to

predominate, and the fumes from the brazier filled the room with

a blue mist.

The _imám_, in his soft, musical voice, was reciting that chapter of

the Korân called "The Angel." The weird ceremony had begun. In order

to achieve my purpose I perceived that I should have to draw myself

right up to the narrow embrasure and rest my weight entirely upon the

ledge of the window. There was little danger in the maneuver, provided

I made no noise; for the hanging lamp, by reason of its form, cast no

light into the upper part of the room. As I achieved the desired

position I became painfully aware of the pungency of the perfume with

which the apartment was filled.

Lying there upon the ledge in a most painful attitude, I wriggled

forward inch by inch further into the room, until I was in a position

to use my right arm more or less freely. The preliminary prayer

concluded, the measuring of the perfumes had now actually commenced,

and I readily perceived that without recourse to the parchment, from

which the Lady Zuleyka never once removed her hands, it would indeed

be impossible to discover the secret. For, consulting the ancient

prescription, she would select one of the gold-stoppered bottles,

unscrew it, direct that so many grains should be taken from it, and

never removing her gaze from Mohammed er-Rahmân whilst he measured

out the correct quantity, would restopper the vessel and so proceed.

As each was placed in a wide-mouthed glass jar by the perfumer, Abû

Tabâh, extending his hands over the jar, pronounced the names:

"Gabraîl Mikaîl, Israfîl, Israîl."

Cautiously I raised to my eyes the small but powerful opera-glasses

to procure which I had gone to my rooms at Shepheard's. Focussing them

upon the ancient scroll lying on the table beneath me, I discovered,

to my joy, that I could read the lettering quite well. Whilst Abû

Tabâh began to recite some kind of incantation in the course of which

the names of the Companions of the Prophet frequently occurred, I

commenced to read the writing of Avicenna.

"In the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful, the High, the

Great...."

So far had I proceeded and no further when I became aware of a curious

change in the form of the Arabic letters. They seemed to be moving, to

be cunningly changing places one with another as if to trick me out of

grasping their meaning!

The illusion persisting, I determined that it was due to the unnatural

strain imposed upon my vision, and although I recognized that time

was precious I found myself compelled temporarily to desist, since

nothing was to be gained by watching these letters which danced from

side to side of the parchment, sometimes in groups and sometimes

singly, so that I found myself pursuing one slim Arab A (_'Alif_)

entirely up the page from the bottom to the top where it finally

disappeared under the thumb of the Lady Zuleyka!

Lowering the glasses I stared down in stupefaction at Abû Tabâh. He

had just cast fresh incense upon the flames, and it came home to me,

with a childish and unreasoning sense of terror, that the Egyptians

who called this man the Magician were wiser than I. For whilst I could

no longer hear his voice, I now could _see_ the words issuing from his

mouth! They formed slowly and gracefully in the blue clouds of vapour

some four feet above his head, revealed their meaning to me in letters

of gold, and then faded away towards the ceiling!

Old-established beliefs began to totter about me as I became aware of

a number of small murmuring voices within the room. They were the

voices of the perfumes burning in the brazier. Said one, in a guttural

tone:

"I am Myrrh. My voice is the voice of the Tomb."

And another softly: "I am Ambergris. I lure the hearts of men."

And a third huskily: "I am Patchouli. My promises are lies."

My sense of smell seemed to have deserted me and to have been

replaced by a sense of hearing. And now this room of magic began to

expand before my eyes. The walls receded and receded, until the

apartment grew larger than the interior of the Citadel Mosque; the

roof shot up so high that I knew there was no cathedral in the world

half so lofty. Abû Tabâh, his hands extended above the brazier, shrank

to minute dimensions, and the Lady Zuleyka, seated beneath me, became

almost invisible.

The project which had led me to thrust myself into the midst of this

feast of sorcery vanished from my mind. I desired but one thing: to

depart, ere reason utterly deserted me. But, to my horror, I

discovered that my muscles were become rigid bands of iron! The figure

of Abû Tabâh was drawing nearer; his slowly moving arms had grown

serpentine and his eyes had changed to pools of flame which seemed to

summon me. At the time when this new phenomenon added itself to the

other horrors, I seemed to be impelled by an irresistible force to

jerk my head downwards: I heard my neck muscles snap metallically: I

_saw_ a scream of agony spurt forth from my lips ... and I saw upon a

little ledge immediately below the square window a little _mibkharah_,

or incense burner, which hitherto I had not observed. A thick, oily

brown stream of vapor was issuing from its perforated lid and bathing

my face clammily. Sense of smell I had none; but a chuckling,

demoniacal voice spoke from the _mibkharah_, saying--

"I am _Hashish_! I drive men mad! Whilst thou hast lain up there like

a very fool, I have sent my vapors to thy brain and stolen thy senses

from thee. It was for this purpose that I was set here beneath the

window where thou couldst not fail to enjoy the full benefit of my

poisonous perfume...."

Slipping off the ledge, I fell ... and darkness closed about me.

VI

My awakening constitutes one of the most painful recollections of a

not uneventful career; for, with aching head and tortured limbs, I sat

upright upon the floor of a tiny, stuffy, and uncleanly cell! The only

light was that which entered by way of a little grating in the door.

I was a prisoner; and, in the same instant that I realized the fact

of my incarceration, I realized also that I had been duped. The weird

happenings in the apartment of Mohammed er-Rahmân had been

hallucinations due to my having inhaled the fumes of some preparation

of _hashish_, or Indian hemp. The characteristic sickly odor of the

drug had been concealed by the pungency of the other and more

odoriferous perfumes; and because of the position of the censer

containing the burning _hashish_, no one else in the room had been

affected by its vapor. Could it have been that Abû Tabâh had known

of my presence from the first?

I rose, unsteadily, and looked out through the grating into a narrow

passage. A native constable stood at one end of it, and beyond him I

obtained a glimpse of the entrance hall. Instantly I recognized that

I was under arrest at the Bâb el-Khalk police station!

A great rage consumed me. Raising my fists I banged furiously upon

the door, and the Egyptian policeman came running along the passage.

"What does this mean, _shawêsh_?" I demanded. "Why am I detained here?

I am an Englishman. Send the superintendent to me instantly."

The policeman's face expressed alternately anger, surprise, and

stupefaction.

"You were brought here last night, most disgustingly and speechlessly

drunk, in a cart!" he replied.

"I demand to see the superintendent."

"Certainly, certainly, _effendim_!" cried the man, now thoroughly

alarmed. "In an instant, _effendim_!"

Such is the magical power of the word "Inglîsi" (Englishman).

A painfully perturbed and apologetic native official appeared almost

immediately, to whom I explained that I had been to a fancy dress ball

at the Gezira Palace Hotel, and, injudiciously walking homeward at a

late hour, had been attacked and struck senseless. He was anxiously

courteous, sending a man to Shepheard's with my written instructions

to bring back a change of apparel and offering me every facility for

removing my disguise and making myself presentable. The fact that he

palpably disbelieved my story did not render his concern one whit the

less.

I discovered the hour to be close upon noon, and, once more my outward

self, I was about to depart from the Place Bâb el-Khalk, when, into

the superintendent's room came Abû Tabâh! His handsome ascetic face

exhibited grave concern as he saluted me.

"How can I express my sorrow, Kernaby Pasha," he said in his soft

faultless English, "that so unfortunate and unseemly an accident

should have befallen you? I learned of your presence here but a few

moments ago, and I hastened to convey to you an assurance of my

deepest regret and sympathy."

"More than good of you," I replied. "I am much indebted."

"It grieves me," he continued suavely, "to learn that there are

footpads infesting the Cairo streets, and that an English gentleman

may not walk home from a ball safely. I trust that you will provide

the police with a detailed account of any valuables which you may have

lost. I have here"--thrusting his hand into his robe--"the only item

of your property thus far recovered. No doubt you are somewhat

short-sighted, Kernaby Pasha, as I am, and experience a certain

difficulty in discerning the names of your partners upon your dance

programme."

And with one of those sweet smiles which could so transfigure his

face, Abû Tabâh handed me my opera-glasses!

VI

THE WHISPERING MUMMY

I

Felix Bréton and I were the only occupants of the raised platform

at the end of the hall; and the inartistic performance of the bulky

dancer who occupied the stage promised to be interminable. From

motives of sheer boredom I studied the details of her dress--a white

dress, fitting like a vest from shoulder to hip, and having short,

full sleeves under which was a sort of blue gauze. Her hair, wrists,

and ankles glittered with barbaric jewelery and strings of little

coins.

A deafening orchestra consisting of tambourines, shrieking Arab viols,

and the inevitable _daràbukeh_, surrounded the performer in a

half-circle; and three other large-sized _ghawâzi_ mingled their

shrill voices with the barbaric discords of the musicians. I yawned.

"As a quest of local color, Bréton," I said, "this evening's

expedition can only be voted a dismal failure."

Felix Bréton turned to me, with a smile, resting his elbows upon the

dirty little marble-topped table. He looked sufficiently like an

artist to have been merely a painter; yet his gruesome picture "Le

Roi S'Amuse" had proved the salvation of the previous Salon.

"Have patience," he said; "it is Shejeret ed-Durr (Tree of Pearls)

that we have come to see, and she has not yet appeared."

"Unless she appears shortly," I replied, stifling another yawn,

"I shall disappear."

But even as I spoke, there arose a hum of excitement throughout

the crowded room; the fat dancer, breathless from her unpleasing

exertions, resumed her seat; and all the performers turned their

heads towards a door at the side of the stage. A veiled figure

entered, with slow, lithe step; and her appearance was acclaimed

excitedly. Coming to the centre of the stage, she threw off her

veil with a swift movement, and confronted the audience, a slim,

barbaric figure. I glanced at Felix Bréton. His eyes were glittering

with excitement. Here at last was the _ghazîyeh_ of romance, the

_ghazîyeh_ of the Egyptian monuments; a true daughter of that

mysterious tribe who, in the remote past of the Nile-land, wove

spells of subtle moon-magic before the golden Pharaoh.

A monstrous crash from the musicians opened the music of the

dance--the famous Gazelle dance--which commenced to a measure of

long, monotonous cadences. Shejeret ed-Durr began slowly to move her

arms and body in that indescribable manner which, like the stirring

of palm fronds, speaks the veritable language of the voluptuous Orient.

The attendant dancers clashing their miniature cymbals, the measure

quickened, and swift passion informed the languorous body, which

magically became transformed into that of a leaping nymph, a

bacchante, a living illustration of Keats' wonder-words:

"Like to a moving vintage, down they came,

Crown'd with green leaves, and faces all aflame;

All madly dancing through the pleasant valley,

To scare thee, Melancholy!"

At the conclusion of her dance, Shejeret ed-Durr, resuming her veil,

descended to the floor of the hall and passed from table to table,

exchanging light badinage with those patrons known to her.

"Do you think you could induce her to come up here, Kernaby?" said

Bréton excitedly; "she is simply the ideal model for my 'Danse

Funébre.'"

"Any inducement other than our presence in this select part of the

establishment," I replied, offering him a cigarette, "is unnecessary.

She will present herself with all reasonable despatch."

Indeed, I had seen the dark eyes glance many times towards us, as we

sat there in distinguished isolation; and, even as I spoke, the girl

was ascending the steps, from whence she approached our table, smiling

in friendly fashion. Bréton's surprise was rather amusing when she

confidently seated herself, giving an order to the cross-eyed waiter

in close attendance. It would be our privilege, of course, to pay the

bill. Of its being a privilege, no one could doubt who had observed

the envious glances cast in our direction by less favored patrons.

As Bréton spoke no Arabic, the task of interpreter devolved upon me;

and I was carrying on quite mechanically when my attention was drawn

to a peculiarly sinister-looking person seated alone at a table close

beside the corner of the stage. I remembered having observed him

address some remark to Shejeret ed-Durr, and having noted that she

seemed to avoid him. Now, he was directing upon us a glare so

electrically baleful that when I first detected it I was conscious of

a sort of shock. The man was rather oddly dressed, wearing a black

turban and a sort of loose robe not unlike the _burnûs_ of the desert

Arabs. I concluded that he belonged to some religious order, and that

his bosom was inflamed with a hatred of a most murderous character

towards myself, Felix Bréton, and the dancer.

I endeavored, without attracting the girl's notice to indicate to

Bréton the presence of the Man of the Glare; but the artist was so

engrossed in contemplation of Shejeret ed-Durr and kept me so busy

interpreting, that I abandoned the attempt in despair. Having made his

wishes evident to her, the girl readily consented to pose for him; and

when next I glanced at the table near the stage, the Man of the Glare

had disappeared.

What induced me to look towards the rear of the platform upon which

we were seated I know not, unless I did so in obedience to a species

of hypnotic suggestion; but something prompted me to glance over my

shoulder. And, for the second time that night, I encountered the gaze

of mysterious eyes. From a little square window these compelling eyes

regarded me fixedly, and presently I distinguished the outline of a

head surmounted by a white turban.

The second watcher was Abû Tabâh!

What business could have brought the mysterious _imám_ to such a place

was a problem beyond my powers of conjecture, but that he was silently

directing me to depart with all speed I presently made out. Having

signified, by a gesture, that I had grasped the purport of his

message, I turned again to Bréton, who was struggling to carry on a

conversation with Shejeret ed-Durr in his native French.

I experienced some difficulty in inducing him to leave, but my

arguments finally prevailed, and we passed out into the dimly lighted

street. About us in the darkness pipes wailed, and there was the dim

throbbing of the eternal _darábukeh_. We were in that part of El-Wasr

adjoining the notorious Square of the Fountain. Discordant woman

voices filled the night, and strange figures flitted from the shadows

into the light streaming from the open doorways. It was the centre of

secret Cairo, the midnight city; and three paces from the door of the

dance hall, a slim, black-robed figure suddenly appeared at my elbow,

and the musical voice of Abû Tabâh spoke close to my ear:

"Be on the terrace of Shepheard's in half an hour."

The mysterious figure melted again into the shadows about us.

II

On the deserted hotel balcony, Abû Tabâh awaited me.

"It was indeed fortunate, Kernaby Pasha," he said, "that I observed

you this evening."

"I am greatly obliged to you," I replied, "for watching over me with

such paternal solicitude. May I inquire what danger I have incurred?"

I was angrily conscious of feeling like a schoolboy suffering reproof.

"A very great danger," Abû Tabâh assured me, his gentle, musical voice

expressing real concern. "Ahmad es-Kebîr is the lover of the dancer

called Shejeret ed-Durr, although she who is of the _ghawâzi_, of

Keneh does not return his affections."

"Ahmad es-Kebîr?--do you refer to a malignant looking person in a

black turban?" I inquired.

Abû Tabâh gravely inclined his head.

"He is one of the _Rifa'îyeh_, the Black _Darwîshes_. They practise

strange rites and are by some accredited with supernatural powers. For

you the danger is not so great as for your friend, who seemed to be

speaking words of love to the _ghazîyeh_."

I laughed shortly.

"You are mistaken, Abû Tabâh," I replied; "his interest was not of the

character which you suppose. He is an artist and merely desired the

girl to pose for him."

Abû Tabâh shrugged his shoulders.

"She is an unveiled woman," he said contemptuously, "but love in the

heart of such a one as Ahmad is a terrible passion, consuming the

vitals and rendering whom it afflicts either a partaker of Paradise

or as one of the evil _ginn_."

"In the particular case under consideration," I said, "it would seem

distinctly to have produced the latter and less agreeable symptoms."

"Let your friend step warily," advised Abû Tabâh; "for some who have

aroused the enmity of the Black _Darwîshes_ have met with strange

ends, nor has it been possible to fix responsibility upon any member

of the order."

"You think my poor friend, Felix Bréton, may be discovered some

morning in an unpleasantly messy condition?"

"The Black _Darwîshes_ do not employ the knife," answered Abû Tabâh;

"they employ strange and more subtle weapons."

I stared hard at him in the darkness. I thought I knew my Cairo, but

this sounded unpleasantly mysterious. However--

"I am indebted to you, Abû Tabâh," I said, "for your timely warning.

As you know, I always personally avoid any possibility of

misunderstanding in regard to my relations with Egyptian womenfolk."

"With some rare exceptions," agreed Abû Tabâh, "particulars of which

escape my memory at the moment, you have always been a model of

discretion, Kernaby Pasha."

"I will warn my friend," I said hastily, "of the view of his conduct

mistakenly taken by the gentleman in the black turban."

"It is well," replied Abû Tabâh; "we shall meet again ere long."

With that and the customary dignified salutations he departed, leaving

me wondering what hidden significance lay in his words, "we shall meet

again ere long."

Experience had taught me that Abû Tabâh's warnings were not to be

lightly dismissed, and I knew enough of the fanaticism of those

strange Eastern sects whereof the _Rifa'îyeh_, or Black _Darwîshes_,

was one, to realize that it would prove an unhealthy amusement to

interfere with their domestic affairs. Felix Bréton, who possessed the

rare gift of capturing and transferring to canvas the atmosphere of

the East with the opulent colorings and vivid contrasts which

constitute its charm, had nevertheless but little practical experience

of the manners and customs of the golden Orient. He had leased a large

studio situated on the roof of a fine old Cairene palace hidden away

behind the Street of the Booksellers and almost in the shadow of the

Mosque of el-Azhar. His romantic spirit had prompted him after a time

to give up his rooms at the Continental and to take up his abode in

the apartment adjoining the studio; that is to say, completely to cut

himself off from European life and to become an inhabitant of the

Oriental city. With his imperfect knowledge of the practical side of

native life in the East, I did not envy him; but I was fully alive to

his danger, isolated as he was from the European community, indeed

from modernity; for out of the boulevards of modern Cairo into the

streets of the _Arabian Nights_ is but a step, yet a step that bridges

the gulf of centuries.

As I entered his studio on the following morning, I discovered him at

work upon the extraordinary picture "Danse Funébre." Shejeret ed-Durr

was posing in the dress of an ancient priestess of Isis. Bréton

briefly greeted me, waving his hand towards a cushioned _dîwan_ before

which stood a little coffee-table bearing decanters, siphons,

cigarettes, and other companionable paraphernalia. Making myself

comfortable, I studied the picture and the model.

"Danse Funébre" was an extraordinary conception, representing an

elaborately furnished modern room, apparently that of an antiquary

or Egyptologist; for a multitude of queer relics decorated the walls,

cabinets, and the large table at which a man was seated. Boldly

represented immediately to the left of his chair stood a mummy in an

ornate sarcophagus, and forth from the swathed figure into the light

cast downwards from an antique lamp, floated a beautiful spirit

shape--that of an Egyptian priestess. Upon her face was an expression

of intense anger, as, her fingers crooked in sinister fashion, she

bent over the man at the table.

The mummy and sarcophagus depicted on the canvas stood before me

against the wall of the studio, the lid resting beside the case. It

was moulded, as is sometimes seen, to represent the face and figure of

the occupant and was as fine an example of the kind as I had met with.

The mummy was that of a priestess and dancer of the Great Temple at

Philæ, and it had been lent by the museum authorities for the purpose

of Bréton's picture.

His enthusiasm at first seeing Shejeret ed-Durr was explainable by the

really uncanny resemblance which the girl bore to the modeled figure.

Studying her, from my seat on the _dîwan_, as she posed in that gauzy

raiment depicted upon the lid of the sarcophagus, it seemed indeed

that the ancient priestess was reborn in the form of Shejeret ed-Durr

the _ghazîyeh_. Bréton had evidently tabooed make-up, with the

exception of the characteristic black bordering to the eyes (which

appeared in the presentment of the servant of Isis); and seen now in

its natural coloring the face of the dancing-girl had undoubted

beauty.

Presently, whilst the model rested, I informed Bréton of my

conversation with Abû Tabâh; but, as I had anticipated, he was

sceptical to the point of derision.

"My dear Kernaby," he said, "is it likely that I am going to interrupt

my work now that I have found such an inspiring model, because some

ridiculous _darwîsh_ disapproves?"

"It is highly unlikely," I admitted; "but do not make the mistake of

treating the matter lightly. You are right off the map here, and Cairo

is not Paris."

"It is a great deal safer!" he cried in his boisterous fashion, "and

infinitely more interesting."

But my mind was far from easy; for in the dark eyes of the model, when

their glance rested upon Felix Bréton, there was that to have aroused

poisonous sentiments in the bosom of the Man of the Glare.

III

During the course of the following month I saw Felix Bréton two or

three times, and he was enthusiastic about the progress of his picture

and the beauty of his model. The first hint that I received of the

strange idea which was to lead to stranger happenings came one

afternoon when he had called upon me at Shepheard's.

"Do you believe in reincarnation, Kernaby?" he asked suddenly.

I stared at him in surprise.

"Regardless of my personal views on the matter," I replied, "in what

way does the subject interest you?"

Momentarily he hesitated; then--

"The resemblance between Yâsmîna" (this was the real name of Shejeret

ed-Durr) "and the priestess of Isis," he said, "appears to me too

marked to be explainable by mere coincidence. If the mummy were my

personal property I should unwrap it----"

"Do you seriously desire me to believe that you regard Yâsmîna as a

reincarnation of the elder lady?"

"That or a lineal descendant," he answered. "The tribe of the

_Ghawâzi_ is of unknown antiquity and may very well be descended from

those temple dancers of the days of the Pharaohs. If you have studied

the ancient wall paintings, you cannot have failed to observe that the

dancing girls represented have entirely different forms from those of

any other women depicted and from those of the ordinary Egyptian women

of to-day."

His enthusiasm was tremendous; he was one of those uncomfortable

fanatics who will ride a theory to the death.

"I cannot say that I have noticed it," I replied. "Your knowledge

of the female form divine is doubtless more extensive than mine."

"My dear Kernaby," he cried excitedly, "to the trained eye the

difference is extraordinary. Until I saw Yâsmîna I had believed the

peculiar form to which I refer to be extinct like the blue enamel and

the sacred lotus. If it is not reincarnation it is heredity."

I could not help thinking that it more closely resembled insanity than

either; but since Bréton had made no reference to the wearer of the

black turban, I experienced less anxiety respecting his physical than

his mental welfare.

Three days later there was a dramatic development. Drifting idly into

Bréton's studio one morning I found him pacing the place in despair

and glaring at his unfinished canvas like a man distraught.

"Where is Shejeret ed-Durr?" I inquired.

"Gone!" he replied. "She disappeared yesterday and I can find no trace

of her."

"Surely the excellent Suleyman, proprietor of the dancing

establishment, can assist you?"

"I tell you," cried Bréton savagely, "that she has disappeared. No one

knows what has become of her."

I looked at him in dismay. He presented a mournful spectacle. He was

unshaven and his dark hair was wildly disordered. His despair was more

acute than I should have supposed possible in the circumstances; and

I concluded that his interest in Yâsmîna was deeper than I had assumed

or that I was incapable of comprehending the artistic temperament. I

suppose the Gallic blood in him had something to do with it, but I was

unspeakably distressed to observe that the man was on the verge of

tears.

Consolation was impossible, and I left him pacing his empty studio

distractedly. That night at an unearthly hour, long after I had

retired to my own apartments, he came to Shepheard's. Being shown into

my room, and the servant having departed--

"Yâsmîna is dead!" he burst out, standing there, a disheveled figure,

just within the doorway.

"What!" I exclaimed, standing up from the table at which I had been

writing and confronting him. "Dead? Do you mean----"

"He has murdered her!" said Bréton, in a dull monotonous voice--"that

fiend of whom you warned me."

I was appalled; for I had been utterly unprepared for such a tragedy.

"Who discovered her?"

"No one discovered her; she will never be discovered! He has buried

her body in some secret spot in the desert."

My amazement grew with every word that he uttered, and presently--

"Then how in Heaven's name did you learn of her murder?" I asked.

Felix Bréton, who had begun to pace up and down the room, a truly

pitiable figure, paused and looked at me wildly.

"You will think that I am mad, Kernaby," he said; "but I must tell

you--I must tell someone. I could see that you were incredulous when

I spoke to you of reincarnation, but I was right, Kernaby, I was right!

Either that or my reason is deserting me."

My opinion inclined distinctly in the direction of the latter theory,

but I remained silent, watching Bréton's haggard face.

"To-night," he continued, "as I sat looking at my unfinished picture

and trying to imagine what could have become of Yâsmîna, the

mummy--the mummy of the priestess--_spoke to me_!"

I slowly sank back into my chair. I was now assured that Felix Bréton

had formed a sudden and intense infatuation for Yâsmîna and that her

mysterious disappearance had deranged his sensitive mind. Words failed

me; I could think of nothing to say; and bending towards me his

haggard face--

"It whispered to me," he said, "in _her_ voice--in my own language,

French, as I have taught it to her; just a few imperfect words, but

sufficient to convey to me the story of the tragedy. Kernaby, what

does it mean? Is it possible that her spirit, released from the body

of Yâsmîna, has returned to that which I firmly believe it formerly

inhabited?..."

I had had the misfortune to be a party to some distressing scenes, but

few had affected me so unpleasantly as this. That poor Felix Bréton

was raving I could not doubt, but having persuaded him to spend the

night at Shepheard's and having seen him safely to bed, I returned to

my own room to endeavor to work out the problem of what steps I should

take regarding him on the morrow.

In the morning, however, he seemed more composed, having shaved and

generally rendered himself more presentable; but the wild look still

lingered in his eyes and I could see that the strange obsession had

secured a firm hold upon him. He discussed the matter quite calmly

during breakfast, and invited me to visit the scene of this

supernatural happening. I assented, and hailing _arabîyeh_ we drove

together to the studio.

There was nothing abnormal in the appearance of the place, but I

examined the mummy and the mummy case with a new curiosity; for if

Felix Bréton was not mad (and this was a point upon which I recognized

my incompetence to decide) the phantom voice was clearly the product

of some trick. However, I was unable to discover anything to account

for it. The sarcophagus stood against the outer wall of the studio and

near to a large lattice window before which was draped a heavy

tapestry curtain for the purpose of excluding undesirable light upon

that side of the model's throne. There was no balcony outside the

window, which was fully, thirty feet from the street below; therefore

unless someone had been hiding in the window recess beside the

sarcophagus, trickery appeared to be out of the question. Turning to

Bréton, who was watching me haggardly--

"You searched the recess last night?" I said.

"I did--immediately. There was no one there. There was no one anywhere

in the studio; and when I looked out of the open window, the street

below was deserted from end to end."

Naturally, I took it for granted that he would avoid the place, at any

rate by night; and I said as much, as we passed along the Mûski

together. I can never forget the wildness in his eyes as he turned to

me.

"I _must_ go back, Kernaby," he said. "It seems like desertion, base

and cowardly."

IV

Bréton did not join me at dinner that evening as we had arranged that

he should do, and towards the hour of ten o'clock, growing more and

more uneasy on his behalf, I set out for the studio, half hoping that

I should meet him. I saw nothing of him, however, as I crossed the

Ezbekîyeh Gardens and the Atabet el-Khadrâ into the Mûski. From thence

onward to the Rondpoint the dark and narrow streets were almost

deserted, and from the corner of the Shâria el-Khordâgîya to the

Street of the Bookbinders I met with no living thing save a lean and

furtive cat.

My footsteps echoed hollowly from wall to wall of the overhanging

buildings, as I approached the door giving access to the courtyard

from which a stair communicated with the studio above. The moonlight,

slanting down into the ancient place, left more than half of it in

densest shadow, but just touched the railing of the balcony and the

lower part of the _mushrabîyeh_ screen masking what once had been the

_harêm_ apartments from the view of one entering the courtyard. Far

above me, through an open lattice, a dim light shone out, though

vaguely. This part of the house was bathed in the radiance of the

moon, which dimmed that of the studio lamp; for the open window was

the window of Bréton's studio.

The door at the foot of the stairs was partly open, and I ascended

slowly, since the place was quite dark and I was forced to feel my way

around the eccentric turnings introduced by an Arab architect to whom

simplicity had evidently been an abomination.

A modern door had been fitted to the studio; and although this door

was also unfastened, I rapped loudly, but, receiving no answer,

entered the studio. It was empty. The lamp was lighted, as I had

observed from below, and a faint aroma of Turkish tobacco smoke hung

in the air. Clearly, Bréton had left but a few moments earlier; and

I judged it probable that he would be returning very shortly, for had

he set out for Shepheard's he would not have left his door unlocked,

and in any event I should have met him on the way. Therefore, having

glanced into the inner room, which, latterly, Bréton had been using as

a bedroom, I sat down on the _dîwan_ and prepared to await his return.

The lamp whose light I had seen shining through the window was that

which hung before the model's throne, and the curtain which usually

draped the window recess had been partially pulled aside, so that from

where I sat I could see part of the centre lattice, which was open.

My mind at this time was entirely occupied with uneasy speculations

regarding Bréton, and although I had glanced more than once at the

large unfinished picture on the easel, from which the face of Shejeret

ed-Durr peered out across the shoulder of the seated man, and several

times had looked at the mummy set upright in its painted sarcophagus,

no sense of the uncanny had touched me or in any way prepared me for

the amazing manifestation which I was about to witness.

How long I had sat there I cannot say exactly; possibly for ten

minutes or a quarter of an hour: when, suddenly, an eerie whisper

crept through the stillness of the big room!

Since I had more than once been temporarily tricked into belief in the

supernatural, by means of certain ingenious devices, I did not readily

fall a victim to the mysterious nature of the present occurrence. Yet

I must confess that my heart gave a great leap and I was forced to

exert all my will to control my nerves. I sat quite still, listening

intently for a repetition of that evil whisper. Then, in the

stillness, it came again.

"Felix," it breathed, "because of you I lie dead in a grave in the

desert.... I died for you, Felix, and now I am so lonely...."

The whispering voice offered no clue to the age or the sex of the

speaker; for a true whisper is toneless. But the words, as Bréton had

declared, were uttered in broken French and spoken with a curious

accent.

It ceased, that ghostly whispering; and I realized that my nerves

could stand no more of it; for that it came or seemed to come from the

mummy of the priestess was a fact as undeniable as it was horrible.

Resorting to action, I sprang up and leaped across the room, grasping

first at the curtain draped in the window on the right of the

sarcophagus. I jerked it fully aside. The recess was empty. All three

lattices were open, on the right, left, and in the centre of the

window; but, craning out from the latter, I saw the street below to

be vacant from end to end.

Stepping back into the room, and metaphorically clutching my courage

with both hands, I approached the sarcophagus, peered behind it, all

around it, and, finally, into the swathed face of the mummy itself.

Nothing rewarded my search. But the studio of Felix Bréton seemed to

have become icily cold; at any rate I found myself to be shivering;

and walking deliberately, although it cost me a monstrous effort to do

so, I descended the dark winding stairway into the courtyard, and, on

regaining the street, discovered to my intense annoyance that my brow

was wet with cold perspiration.

I had taken no more than ten paces in the direction of the Sûk

es-Sûdan when I heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and for some

reason (I can only suppose as a result of my highly strung condition)

I stepped into the shelter of a narrow gateway, where I could see

without being seen, and there awaited the appearance of the one who

approached.

It was Felix Bréton, his face showing ghastly in the moonlight as he

turned the corner. I could not be certain if a mere echo had deceived

me, but I thought I could detect faintly the softer footfalls of

someone who was following him. From my cover I had an uninterrupted

view of the entrance to the house which I had just left; and without

showing myself I watched Bréton approach the door. At its threshold

he seemed to hesitate; and in that brief hesitancy were illustrated

the conflicting emotions driving the man. I recalled the words he had

spoken to me that morning. "I must go back, Kernaby; it seems like

desertion, base and cowardly." He opened the door and disappeared.

As he did so, a second figure crossed from the shadows on the opposite

side of the street--that is, the side upon which I was concealed; and

in turn advanced towards the door. As he passed my hiding-place I

acted. Without an instant's hesitation I hurled myself upon him.

How he avoided that furious attack--if he did avoid it--or whether in

the darkness I miscalculated my spring, I do not know to this day: I

only know that I missed my objective, stumbled, recovered myself ...

and turned with clenched fists to find _Abû Tabâh_ confronting me!

"Kernaby Pasha!" he cried.

"Abû Tabâh!" said I dazedly.

"I perceive that I am not alone in my anxiety for the welfare of M.

Felix Bréton."

"But why were you following him? I narrowly missed assaulting you."

"Very narrowly," he agreed in his gentle manner; "but you ask me why

I was following M. Bréton. I was following him because I have seen so

many of those who have crossed the path of the Black _Darwîshes_ meet

with violent and inexplicable deaths."

"Murder?" I whispered.

"Not murder--suicide. Therefore, observing, as I had anticipated,

a strangeness in your friend's behavior, I have watched him."

"The strangeness of his behavior is easily accounted for," I said.

And excitedly, for the horror of the episode in the studio was still

strongly upon me, I told him of the whispering mummy.

"These are very dreadful things of which you speak, Kernaby Pasha," he

admitted, "but I warned you that it was ill to incur the enmity of the

Black _Darwîshes_. That there is a scheme afoot to compass the

self-destruction or insanity of your friend is now evident to me; and

he has brought this calamity upon himself; for the words which he

believed to be spoken by the spirit of the girl Yâsmîna would not have

affected him so unpleasantly if his attitude towards her had been

marked by proper restraint and the affair confined within suitable

limitations."

"Quite so. But although the Black _Darwîshes_ may be both malignant

and clever, that uncanny whispering is beyond the control of natural

forces."

"Such is not my opinion," replied Abû Tabâh. "A spirit does not

mistake one person for another; and the whispering voice addressed

itself to 'Felix' when Felix was not present. I believe, Kernaby

Pasha, that you are the possessor of a pair of excellent

opera-glasses? May I suggest that you return to Shepheard's and

procure them."

V

The platform of the minaret seemed very cold to the touch of my

stockinged feet; for I had left my shoes at the entrance to the mosque

below in accordance with custom; and now, from the wooden balcony, I

overlooked the neighboring roofs of Cairo, and Abû Tabâh, beside me,

pointed to where a vague patch of light broke the darkness beneath us

to the left.

"The window of M. Felix Bréton's studio," he said.

Raising the glasses to his eyes, he gazed in that direction, whilst

I also peered thither and succeeded in making out the well of the

courtyard and the roofs of the buildings to right and left of it.

It was not evident to me for what Abû Tabâh was looking, and when

presently he lowered the glasses and turned to me I expressed my

doubts in words.

"It is surely evident," I said, speaking, as I now almost invariably

did to the _imám_, in English, of which he had a perfect mastery,

"that we have little chance of discovering anything from here, since

nothing was visible from the studio window. Furthermore, who save

Yâsmîna could have spoken in the manner which I have related and in

broken French?"

"An eavesdropper," he replied, "might have profited by the lessons

which Yâsmîna received from M. Bréton; and all vocal characteristics

are lost in a whisper. In the second place, Yâsmîna is not dead."

"What!" I cried.

Although, when Bréton had informed me of her death, I myself had

doubted him, for some reason the ghostly whisper had convinced me as

it had convinced him.

"She has been kept a prisoner during the past week in a house

belonging to one of the Black _Darwîshes_," continued Abû Tabâh; "but

my agents succeeded in tracing her this morning. By my orders,

however, she has not been allowed to return to her home."

"And what was the object of those orders?"

"That I might learn for what purpose she had been made to disappear,"

replied Abû Tabâh; "and I have learned it to-night."

"Then you think that the whispering mummy----"

He suddenly clutched my arm.

"Quick! raise your glasses!" he said softly. "On the roof of the house

to the left of the light. There is the whispering mummy!"

Strung up to a high pitch of excitement, I gazed through the glasses

in the direction indicated by my companion. Without difficulty I

discerned him--a man wearing a black turban--who crept like some

ungainly cat along the flat roof, carrying in his hand what looked

like one of those sugar canes which pass for a delicacy among the

natives, but which to European eyes appear more suitable for

curtain-poles than sweetmeats. Springing perilously across a yawning

gulf, the wearer of the black turban gained the roof of the studio,

crept along for some little distance further, and then, lying prone,

began slowly to lower the bamboo rod in the direction of the lighted

window.

I found that unconsciously I had suspended my respiration, and now,

breathlessly, as the truth came home to me--

"It is a speaking-tube!" I cried, "I cannot see the end of it, but no

doubt it is curved so as to protrude through the side of the lattice

window. Do you look, Abû Tabâh: _I_ propose to act."

Thrusting the glasses into the _imám's_ hand, I took my Colt repeater

from my pocket, and, having peered for some seconds steadily in the

direction of the dimly visible _Darwîsh_, I opened fire! I had fired

five shots in the heat of my anger at that sinister crouching figure,

ere Abû Tabâh seized my wrist.

"Stop!" he cried; "do you forget where you stand?"

Truly I had forgotten in my indignation, or I should not have outraged

his feelings by firing from the minaret of a mosque. But sufficient of

my wrath remained to occasion me a thrill of satisfaction, when,

peering through the dusk, I saw the _Darwîsh_ throw up his arms and

disappear from view.

* * * * *

"There is blood in the courtyard," said Abû Tabâh; "but Ahmad es-Kebîr

has fled. Therefore he still lives, and his anger will be not the less

but the greater. Depart from Cairo, M. Bréton: it is my counsel to

you."

"But," cried Felix Bréton, glaring wildly at the big canvas on the

easel, "I must finish my picture. As Yâsmîna is alive, she must

return, and I must finish my picture!"

"Yâsmîna cannot return," replied Abû Tabâh, fixing his weird eyes upon

the speaker. "I have caused her to be banished from Cairo." He raised

his hand, checking Bréton's hot words ere they were uttered.

"Recriminations are unavailing. Her presence disturbs the peace of the

city, and the peace of the city it is my duty to maintain."