VI
THE WHISPERING MUMMY
I
Felix Breton and I were the only occupants of the raised platformat the end of the hall; and the inartistic performance of the bulkydancer who occupied the stage promised to be interminable. Frommotives of sheer boredom I studied the details of her dress--a whitedress, 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 littlecoins.
A deafening orchestra consisting of tambourines, shrieking Arab viols,and the inevitable _darabukeh_, surrounded the performer in ahalf-circle; and three other large-sized _ghawazi_ mingled theirshrill voices with the barbaric discords of the musicians. I yawned.
"As a quest of local color, Breton," I said, "this evening'sexpedition can only be voted a dismal failure."
Felix Breton turned to me, with a smile, resting his elbows upon thedirty little marble-topped table. He looked sufficiently like anartist to have been merely a painter; yet his gruesome picture "LeRoi 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 throughoutthe crowded room; the fat dancer, breathless from her unpleasingexertions, resumed her seat; and all the performers turned theirheads towards a door at the side of the stage. A veiled figureentered, with slow, lithe step; and her appearance was acclaimedexcitedly. Coming to the centre of the stage, she threw off herveil with a swift movement, and confronted the audience, a slim,barbaric figure. I glanced at Felix Breton. His eyes were glitteringwith excitement. Here at last was the _ghaziyeh_ of romance, the_ghaziyeh_ of the Egyptian monuments; a true daughter of thatmysterious tribe who, in the remote past of the Nile-land, wovespells of subtle moon-magic before the golden Pharaoh.
A monstrous crash from the musicians opened the music of thedance--the famous Gazelle dance--which commenced to a measure oflong, monotonous cadences. Shejeret ed-Durr began slowly to move herarms and body in that indescribable manner which, like the stirringof palm fronds, speaks the veritable language of the voluptuous Orient.The attendant dancers clashing their miniature cymbals, the measurequickened, and swift passion informed the languorous body, whichmagically became transformed into that of a leaping nymph, abacchante, 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?" saidBreton excitedly; "she is simply the ideal model for my 'DanseFunebre.'"
"Any inducement other than our presence in this select part of theestablishment," 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 wesat there in distinguished isolation; and, even as I spoke, the girlwas ascending the steps, from whence she approached our table, smilingin friendly fashion. Breton's surprise was rather amusing when sheconfidently seated herself, giving an order to the cross-eyed waiterin close attendance. It would be our privilege, of course, to pay thebill. Of its being a privilege, no one could doubt who had observedthe envious glances cast in our direction by less favored patrons.
As Breton spoke no Arabic, the task of interpreter devolved upon me;and I was carrying on quite mechanically when my attention was drawnto a peculiarly sinister-looking person seated alone at a table closebeside the corner of the stage. I remembered having observed himaddress some remark to Shejeret ed-Durr, and having noted that sheseemed to avoid him. Now, he was directing upon us a glare soelectrically baleful that when I first detected it I was conscious ofa sort of shock. The man was rather oddly dressed, wearing a blackturban and a sort of loose robe not unlike the _burnus_ of the desertArabs. I concluded that he belonged to some religious order, and thathis bosom was inflamed with a hatred of a most murderous charactertowards myself, Felix Breton, and the dancer.
I endeavored, without attracting the girl's notice to indicate toBreton the presence of the Man of the Glare; but the artist was soengrossed in contemplation of Shejeret ed-Durr and kept me so busyinterpreting, that I abandoned the attempt in despair. Having made hiswishes evident to her, the girl readily consented to pose for him; andwhen next I glanced at the table near the stage, the Man of the Glarehad disappeared.
What induced me to look towards the rear of the platform upon whichwe were seated I know not, unless I did so in obedience to a speciesof hypnotic suggestion; but something prompted me to glance over myshoulder. And, for the second time that night, I encountered the gazeof mysterious eyes. From a little square window these compelling eyesregarded me fixedly, and presently I distinguished the outline of ahead surmounted by a white turban.
The second watcher was Abu Tabah!
What business could have brought the mysterious _imam_ to such a placewas a problem beyond my powers of conjecture, but that he was silentlydirecting me to depart with all speed I presently made out. Havingsignified, by a gesture, that I had grasped the purport of hismessage, I turned again to Breton, who was struggling to carry on aconversation with Shejeret ed-Durr in his native French.
I experienced some difficulty in inducing him to leave, but myarguments finally prevailed, and we passed out into the dimly lightedstreet. About us in the darkness pipes wailed, and there was the dimthrobbing of the eternal _darabukeh_. We were in that part of El-Wasradjoining the notorious Square of the Fountain. Discordant womanvoices filled the night, and strange figures flitted from the shadowsinto the light streaming from the open doorways. It was the centre ofsecret Cairo, the midnight city; and three paces from the door of thedance hall, a slim, black-robed figure suddenly appeared at my elbow,and the musical voice of Abu Tabah 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, Abu Tabah awaited me.
"It was indeed fortunate, Kernaby Pasha," he said, "that I observedyou this evening."
"I am greatly obliged to you," I replied, "for watching over me withsuch 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," Abu Tabah assured me, his gentle, musical voiceexpressing real concern. "Ahmad es-Kebir is the lover of the dancercalled Shejeret ed-Durr, although she who is of the _ghawazi_, ofKeneh does not return his affections."
"Ahmad es-Kebir?--do you refer to a malignant looking person in ablack turban?" I inquired.
Abu Tabah gravely inclined his head.
"He is one of the _Rifa'iyeh_, the Black _Darwishes_. They practisestrange rites and are by some accredited with supernatural powers. Foryou the danger is not so great as for your friend, who seemed to bespeaking words of love to the _ghaziyeh_."
I laughed shortly.
"You are mistaken, Abu Tabah," I replied; "his interest was not of thecharacter which you suppose. He is an artist and merely desired thegirl to pose for him."
Abu Tabah shrugged his shoulders.
"She is an unveiled woman," he said contemptuously, "but love in theheart of such a one as Ahmad is a terrible passion, consuming thevitals and rendering whom it afflicts either a partaker of Paradiseor as one of the evil _ginn_."
"In the particular case under consideration," I said, "it would seemdistinctly to have produce
d the latter and less agreeable symptoms."
"Let your friend step warily," advised Abu Tabah; "for some who havearoused the enmity of the Black _Darwishes_ have met with strangeends, nor has it been possible to fix responsibility upon any memberof the order."
"You think my poor friend, Felix Breton, may be discovered somemorning in an unpleasantly messy condition?"
"The Black _Darwishes_ do not employ the knife," answered Abu Tabah;"they employ strange and more subtle weapons."
I stared hard at him in the darkness. I thought I knew my Cairo, butthis sounded unpleasantly mysterious. However--
"I am indebted to you, Abu Tabah," I said, "for your timely warning.As you know, I always personally avoid any possibility ofmisunderstanding in regard to my relations with Egyptian womenfolk."
"With some rare exceptions," agreed Abu Tabah, "particulars of whichescape my memory at the moment, you have always been a model ofdiscretion, Kernaby Pasha."
"I will warn my friend," I said hastily, "of the view of his conductmistakenly taken by the gentleman in the black turban."
"It is well," replied Abu Tabah; "we shall meet again ere long."
With that and the customary dignified salutations he departed, leavingme wondering what hidden significance lay in his words, "we shall meetagain ere long."
Experience had taught me that Abu Tabah's warnings were not to belightly dismissed, and I knew enough of the fanaticism of thosestrange Eastern sects whereof the _Rifa'iyeh_, or Black _Darwishes_,was one, to realize that it would prove an unhealthy amusement tointerfere with their domestic affairs. Felix Breton, who possessed therare gift of capturing and transferring to canvas the atmosphere ofthe East with the opulent colorings and vivid contrasts whichconstitute its charm, had nevertheless but little practical experienceof the manners and customs of the golden Orient. He had leased a largestudio situated on the roof of a fine old Cairene palace hidden awaybehind the Street of the Booksellers and almost in the shadow of theMosque of el-Azhar. His romantic spirit had prompted him after a timeto give up his rooms at the Continental and to take up his abode inthe apartment adjoining the studio; that is to say, completely to cuthimself off from European life and to become an inhabitant of theOriental city. With his imperfect knowledge of the practical side ofnative life in the East, I did not envy him; but I was fully alive tohis danger, isolated as he was from the European community, indeedfrom modernity; for out of the boulevards of modern Cairo into thestreets of the _Arabian Nights_ is but a step, yet a step that bridgesthe gulf of centuries.
As I entered his studio on the following morning, I discovered him atwork upon the extraordinary picture "Danse Funebre." Shejeret ed-Durrwas posing in the dress of an ancient priestess of Isis. Bretonbriefly greeted me, waving his hand towards a cushioned _diwan_ beforewhich stood a little coffee-table bearing decanters, siphons,cigarettes, and other companionable paraphernalia. Making myselfcomfortable, I studied the picture and the model.
"Danse Funebre" was an extraordinary conception, representing anelaborately furnished modern room, apparently that of an antiquaryor Egyptologist; for a multitude of queer relics decorated the walls,cabinets, and the large table at which a man was seated. Boldlyrepresented immediately to the left of his chair stood a mummy in anornate sarcophagus, and forth from the swathed figure into the lightcast downwards from an antique lamp, floated a beautiful spiritshape--that of an Egyptian priestess. Upon her face was an expressionof intense anger, as, her fingers crooked in sinister fashion, shebent over the man at the table.
The mummy and sarcophagus depicted on the canvas stood before meagainst the wall of the studio, the lid resting beside the case. Itwas moulded, as is sometimes seen, to represent the face and figure ofthe 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 atPhilae, and it had been lent by the museum authorities for the purposeof Breton's picture.
His enthusiasm at first seeing Shejeret ed-Durr was explainable by thereally uncanny resemblance which the girl bore to the modeled figure.Studying her, from my seat on the _diwan_, as she posed in that gauzyraiment depicted upon the lid of the sarcophagus, it seemed indeedthat the ancient priestess was reborn in the form of Shejeret ed-Durrthe _ghaziyeh_. Breton had evidently tabooed make-up, with theexception of the characteristic black bordering to the eyes (whichappeared in the presentment of the servant of Isis); and seen now inits natural coloring the face of the dancing-girl had undoubtedbeauty.
Presently, whilst the model rested, I informed Breton of myconversation with Abu Tabah; but, as I had anticipated, he wassceptical to the point of derision.
"My dear Kernaby," he said, "is it likely that I am going to interruptmy work now that I have found such an inspiring model, because someridiculous _darwish_ disapproves?"
"It is highly unlikely," I admitted; "but do not make the mistake oftreating the matter lightly. You are right off the map here, and Cairois not Paris."
"It is a great deal safer!" he cried in his boisterous fashion, "andinfinitely more interesting."
But my mind was far from easy; for in the dark eyes of the model, whentheir glance rested upon Felix Breton, there was that to have arousedpoisonous sentiments in the bosom of the Man of the Glare.
III
During the course of the following month I saw Felix Breton two orthree times, and he was enthusiastic about the progress of his pictureand the beauty of his model. The first hint that I received of thestrange idea which was to lead to stranger happenings came oneafternoon 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 whatway does the subject interest you?"
Momentarily he hesitated; then--
"The resemblance between Yasmina" (this was the real name of Shejereted-Durr) "and the priestess of Isis," he said, "appears to me toomarked to be explainable by mere coincidence. If the mummy were mypersonal property I should unwrap it----"
"Do you seriously desire me to believe that you regard Yasmina as areincarnation of the elder lady?"
"That or a lineal descendant," he answered. "The tribe of the_Ghawazi_ is of unknown antiquity and may very well be descended fromthose temple dancers of the days of the Pharaohs. If you have studiedthe ancient wall paintings, you cannot have failed to observe that thedancing girls represented have entirely different forms from those ofany other women depicted and from those of the ordinary Egyptian womenof to-day."
His enthusiasm was tremendous; he was one of those uncomfortablefanatics who will ride a theory to the death.
"I cannot say that I have noticed it," I replied. "Your knowledgeof the female form divine is doubtless more extensive than mine."
"My dear Kernaby," he cried excitedly, "to the trained eye thedifference is extraordinary. Until I saw Yasmina I had believed thepeculiar form to which I refer to be extinct like the blue enamel andthe sacred lotus. If it is not reincarnation it is heredity."
I could not help thinking that it more closely resembled insanity thaneither; but since Breton had made no reference to the wearer of theblack turban, I experienced less anxiety respecting his physical thanhis mental welfare.
Three days later there was a dramatic development. Drifting idly intoBreton's studio one morning I found him pacing the place in despairand 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 traceof her."
"Surely the excellent Suleyman, proprietor of the dancingestablishment, can assist you?"
"I tell you," cried Breton savagely, "that she has disappeared. No oneknows what has become of her."
I looked at him in dismay. He presented a mournful spectacle. He wasunshaven and his dark hair was wildly disordered. His despair was moreacute than I should have supposed possi
ble in the circumstances; andI concluded that his interest in Yasmina was deeper than I had assumedor that I was incapable of comprehending the artistic temperament. Isuppose the Gallic blood in him had something to do with it, but I wasunspeakably distressed to observe that the man was on the verge oftears.
Consolation was impossible, and I left him pacing his empty studiodistractedly. That night at an unearthly hour, long after I hadretired to my own apartments, he came to Shepheard's. Being shown intomy room, and the servant having departed--
"Yasmina 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 beenwriting and confronting him. "Dead? Do you mean----"
"He has murdered her!" said Breton, in a dull monotonous voice--"thatfiend 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 buriedher 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 Breton, who had begun to pace up and down the room, a trulypitiable figure, paused and looked at me wildly.
"You will think that I am mad, Kernaby," he said; "but I must tellyou--I must tell someone. I could see that you were incredulous whenI 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 Breton's haggard face.
"To-night," he continued, "as I sat looking at my unfinished pictureand trying to imagine what could have become of Yasmina, themummy--the mummy of the priestess--_spoke to me_!"
I slowly sank back into my chair. I was now assured that Felix Bretonhad formed a sudden and intense infatuation for Yasmina and that hermysterious disappearance had deranged his sensitive mind. Words failedme; I could think of nothing to say; and bending towards me hishaggard 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, butsufficient to convey to me the story of the tragedy. Kernaby, whatdoes it mean? Is it possible that her spirit, released from the bodyof Yasmina, has returned to that which I firmly believe it formerlyinhabited?..."
I had had the misfortune to be a party to some distressing scenes, butfew had affected me so unpleasantly as this. That poor Felix Bretonwas raving I could not doubt, but having persuaded him to spend thenight at Shepheard's and having seen him safely to bed, I returned tomy own room to endeavor to work out the problem of what steps I shouldtake regarding him on the morrow.
In the morning, however, he seemed more composed, having shaved andgenerally rendered himself more presentable; but the wild look stilllingered in his eyes and I could see that the strange obsession hadsecured a firm hold upon him. He discussed the matter quite calmlyduring breakfast, and invited me to visit the scene of thissupernatural happening. I assented, and hailing _arabiyeh_ we drovetogether to the studio.
There was nothing abnormal in the appearance of the place, but Iexamined the mummy and the mummy case with a new curiosity; for ifFelix Breton was not mad (and this was a point upon which I recognizedmy incompetence to decide) the phantom voice was clearly the productof some trick. However, I was unable to discover anything to accountfor it. The sarcophagus stood against the outer wall of the studio andnear to a large lattice window before which was draped a heavytapestry curtain for the purpose of excluding undesirable light uponthat side of the model's throne. There was no balcony outside thewindow, which was fully, thirty feet from the street below; thereforeunless someone had been hiding in the window recess beside thesarcophagus, trickery appeared to be out of the question. Turning toBreton, 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 anywherein the studio; and when I looked out of the open window, the streetbelow was deserted from end to end."
Naturally, I took it for granted that he would avoid the place, at anyrate by night; and I said as much, as we passed along the Muskitogether. I can never forget the wildness in his eyes as he turned tome.
"I _must_ go back, Kernaby," he said. "It seems like desertion, baseand cowardly."
IV
Breton did not join me at dinner that evening as we had arranged thathe should do, and towards the hour of ten o'clock, growing more andmore uneasy on his behalf, I set out for the studio, half hoping thatI should meet him. I saw nothing of him, however, as I crossed theEzbekiyeh Gardens and the Atabet el-Khadra into the Muski. From thenceonward to the Rondpoint the dark and narrow streets were almostdeserted, and from the corner of the Sharia el-Khordagiya to theStreet of the Bookbinders I met with no living thing save a lean andfurtive cat.
My footsteps echoed hollowly from wall to wall of the overhangingbuildings, as I approached the door giving access to the courtyardfrom which a stair communicated with the studio above. The moonlight,slanting down into the ancient place, left more than half of it indensest shadow, but just touched the railing of the balcony and thelower part of the _mushrabiyeh_ screen masking what once had been the_harem_ apartments from the view of one entering the courtyard. Farabove me, through an open lattice, a dim light shone out, thoughvaguely. This part of the house was bathed in the radiance of themoon, which dimmed that of the studio lamp; for the open window wasthe window of Breton's studio.
The door at the foot of the stairs was partly open, and I ascendedslowly, since the place was quite dark and I was forced to feel my wayaround the eccentric turnings introduced by an Arab architect to whomsimplicity had evidently been an abomination.
A modern door had been fitted to the studio; and although this doorwas also unfastened, I rapped loudly, but, receiving no answer,entered the studio. It was empty. The lamp was lighted, as I hadobserved from below, and a faint aroma of Turkish tobacco smoke hungin the air. Clearly, Breton had left but a few moments earlier; andI judged it probable that he would be returning very shortly, for hadhe 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, havingglanced into the inner room, which, latterly, Breton had been using asa bedroom, I sat down on the _diwan_ and prepared to await his return.
The lamp whose light I had seen shining through the window was thatwhich hung before the model's throne, and the curtain which usuallydraped the window recess had been partially pulled aside, so that fromwhere I sat I could see part of the centre lattice, which was open.My mind at this time was entirely occupied with uneasy speculationsregarding Breton, and although I had glanced more than once at thelarge unfinished picture on the easel, from which the face of Shejereted-Durr peered out across the shoulder of the seated man, and severaltimes 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 forthe amazing manifestation which I was about to witness.
How long I had sat there I cannot say exactly; possibly for tenminutes or a quarter of an hour: when, suddenly, an eerie whispercrept through the stillness of the big room!
Since I had more than once been temporarily tricked into belief in thesupernatural, by means of certain ingenious devices, I did not readilyfall a victim to the mysterious nature of the present occurrence. YetI must confess that my heart gave a great leap and I was forced toexert all my will to control my nerves. I sat quite still, listeningintently for a repetition of that evil whisper. Then, in thestillness, it came again.
"Felix," it breathed, "because of you I lie dead in a grave in thedesert.... I died for you, Felix, and now I am so lonely...."
The whispering voice offered no clue to the age or the sex of thespeaker; for a true whisper is toneless.
But the words, as Breton haddeclared, were uttered in broken French and spoken with a curiousaccent.
It ceased, that ghostly whispering; and I realized that my nervescould stand no more of it; for that it came or seemed to come from themummy of the priestess was a fact as undeniable as it was horrible.
Resorting to action, I sprang up and leaped across the room, graspingfirst at the curtain draped in the window on the right of thesarcophagus. I jerked it fully aside. The recess was empty. All threelattices were open, on the right, left, and in the centre of thewindow; but, craning out from the latter, I saw the street below tobe vacant from end to end.
Stepping back into the room, and metaphorically clutching my couragewith both hands, I approached the sarcophagus, peered behind it, allaround it, and, finally, into the swathed face of the mummy itself.Nothing rewarded my search. But the studio of Felix Breton seemed tohave become icily cold; at any rate I found myself to be shivering;and walking deliberately, although it cost me a monstrous effort to doso, I descended the dark winding stairway into the courtyard, and, onregaining the street, discovered to my intense annoyance that my browwas wet with cold perspiration.
I had taken no more than ten paces in the direction of the Sukes-Sudan when I heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and for somereason (I can only suppose as a result of my highly strung condition)I stepped into the shelter of a narrow gateway, where I could seewithout being seen, and there awaited the appearance of the one whoapproached.
It was Felix Breton, his face showing ghastly in the moonlight as heturned the corner. I could not be certain if a mere echo had deceivedme, but I thought I could detect faintly the softer footfalls ofsomeone who was following him. From my cover I had an uninterruptedview of the entrance to the house which I had just left; and withoutshowing myself I watched Breton approach the door. At its thresholdhe seemed to hesitate; and in that brief hesitancy were illustratedthe conflicting emotions driving the man. I recalled the words he hadspoken to me that morning. "I must go back, Kernaby; it seems likedesertion, base and cowardly." He opened the door and disappeared.
As he did so, a second figure crossed from the shadows on the oppositeside of the street--that is, the side upon which I was concealed; andin turn advanced towards the door. As he passed my hiding-place Iacted. Without an instant's hesitation I hurled myself upon him.
How he avoided that furious attack--if he did avoid it--or whether inthe darkness I miscalculated my spring, I do not know to this day: Ionly know that I missed my objective, stumbled, recovered myself ...and turned with clenched fists to find _Abu Tabah_ confronting me!
"Kernaby Pasha!" he cried.
"Abu Tabah!" said I dazedly.
"I perceive that I am not alone in my anxiety for the welfare of M.Felix Breton."
"But why were you following him? I narrowly missed assaulting you."
"Very narrowly," he agreed in his gentle manner; "but you ask me whyI was following M. Breton. I was following him because I have seen somany of those who have crossed the path of the Black _Darwishes_ meetwith 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 stillstrongly upon me, I told him of the whispering mummy.
"These are very dreadful things of which you speak, Kernaby Pasha," headmitted, "but I warned you that it was ill to incur the enmity of theBlack _Darwishes_. That there is a scheme afoot to compass theself-destruction or insanity of your friend is now evident to me; andhe has brought this calamity upon himself; for the words which hebelieved to be spoken by the spirit of the girl Yasmina would not haveaffected him so unpleasantly if his attitude towards her had beenmarked by proper restraint and the affair confined within suitablelimitations."
"Quite so. But although the Black _Darwishes_ may be both malignantand clever, that uncanny whispering is beyond the control of naturalforces."
"Such is not my opinion," replied Abu Tabah. "A spirit does notmistake one person for another; and the whispering voice addresseditself to 'Felix' when Felix was not present. I believe, KernabyPasha, that you are the possessor of a pair of excellentopera-glasses? May I suggest that you return to Shepheard's andprocure them."
V
The platform of the minaret seemed very cold to the touch of mystockinged feet; for I had left my shoes at the entrance to the mosquebelow in accordance with custom; and now, from the wooden balcony, Ioverlooked the neighboring roofs of Cairo, and Abu Tabah, beside me,pointed to where a vague patch of light broke the darkness beneath usto the left.
"The window of M. Felix Breton's studio," he said.
Raising the glasses to his eyes, he gazed in that direction, whilstI also peered thither and succeeded in making out the well of thecourtyard and the roofs of the buildings to right and left of it.It was not evident to me for what Abu Tabah was looking, and whenpresently he lowered the glasses and turned to me I expressed mydoubts in words.
"It is surely evident," I said, speaking, as I now almost invariablydid to the _imam_, in English, of which he had a perfect mastery,"that we have little chance of discovering anything from here, sincenothing was visible from the studio window. Furthermore, who saveYasmina could have spoken in the manner which I have related and inbroken French?"
"An eavesdropper," he replied, "might have profited by the lessonswhich Yasmina received from M. Breton; and all vocal characteristicsare lost in a whisper. In the second place, Yasmina is not dead."
"What!" I cried.
Although, when Breton had informed me of her death, I myself haddoubted him, for some reason the ghostly whisper had convinced me asit had convinced him.
"She has been kept a prisoner during the past week in a housebelonging to one of the Black _Darwishes_," continued Abu Tabah; "butmy 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 Abu Tabah; "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 houseto the left of the light. There is the whispering mummy!"
Strung up to a high pitch of excitement, I gazed through the glassesin the direction indicated by my companion. Without difficulty Idiscerned him--a man wearing a black turban--who crept like someungainly cat along the flat roof, carrying in his hand what lookedlike one of those sugar canes which pass for a delicacy among thenatives, but which to European eyes appear more suitable forcurtain-poles than sweetmeats. Springing perilously across a yawninggulf, 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 lightedwindow.
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 nodoubt it is curved so as to protrude through the side of the latticewindow. Do you look, Abu Tabah: _I_ propose to act."
Thrusting the glasses into the _imam's_ hand, I took my Colt repeaterfrom my pocket, and, having peered for some seconds steadily in thedirection of the dimly visible _Darwish_, I opened fire! I had firedfive shots in the heat of my anger at that sinister crouching figure,ere Abu Tabah seized my wrist.
"Stop!" he cried; "do you forget where you stand?"
Truly I had forgotten in my indignation, or I should not have outragedhis feelings by firing from the minaret of a mosque. But sufficient ofmy wrath remained to occasion me a thrill of satisfaction, when,peering through the dusk, I saw the _Darwish_ throw up hi
s arms anddisappear from view.
* * * * *
"There is blood in the courtyard," said Abu Tabah; "but Ahmad es-Kebirhas fled. Therefore he still lives, and his anger will be not the lessbut the greater. Depart from Cairo, M. Breton: it is my counsel toyou."
"But," cried Felix Breton, glaring wildly at the big canvas on theeasel, "I must finish my picture. As Yasmina is alive, she mustreturn, and I must finish my picture!"
"Yasmina cannot return," replied Abu Tabah, fixing his weird eyes uponthe speaker. "I have caused her to be banished from Cairo." He raisedhis hand, checking Breton's hot words ere they were uttered."Recriminations are unavailing. Her presence disturbs the peace of thecity, and the peace of the city it is my duty to maintain."
PART II
OTHER TALES