The Broken Thread

by William Le Queux

the coarse woven jibba, added toa melancholy sense. If it were possible to supplement Raife'sdejection, that was achieved by the snuffling dogs who sought garbageunder chair and table, and a certain smell which belongs to much of theEast.

  Raife tired of the cafe, the plank walk, and his neighbours. He rosefrom the table, paid his _addition_ and sauntered away. He was passinga narrow, evil-smelling street of the native quarter when he heard blowsand cries. Raife, being unfamiliar with Oriental methods, sought areason for the disturbance, imagining that a good row would cause adiversion and relieve the monotony of the last few hours. He proceededdown the street and discovered that there was a woman in Khartoum, andshe was being beaten by a big, dusky Nubian. The woman seemed to lookappealingly at Raife, and he, with all the proper, but, in thecircumstances, unwise impulse of a normal man of the West, sailed in andhit that Nubian many blows with his useful fists. He should then havebeaten a hasty retreat, but he did not. The result of this laterindiscretion was that he received from somebody, from somewhere, a stabin the shoulder, which taught him some of the wisdom necessary in theOrient. He found his way back to his hotel, and the regimental surgeon,being sent for, treated the wound, which, though not very serious, wouldtake a long time to heal in a place like Khartoum.

  When Colonel Langton returned from purchasing water-bags, sacks, girthsfor camels, and many of the articles necessary for a well-equippedcaravan, he discovered Raife bound up in bandages, and the regimentalsurgeon putting on the finishing touches to a very neat job of surgery.Having learnt the cause of things, the Colonel swore, in acharacteristic fashion, at the prospect of his plans for big-gameshooting being at least altered, if not indefinitely postponed.

  The news of the occurrence spread, and a few of the officers called onRaife to learn about it. The story having been repeated several times,headed by Colonel Langton, the regimental surgeon and each visitor, inturn, talked interminable lectures on the folly of Raife's action.

  Raife's pride, as well as his shoulder, was sorely hurt. He felt he hadmade an ass of himself, and that these fellows, with their experience,were inwardly laughing at him. He cursed the fact that, for the secondtime, a woman had landed him in trouble.

  His days at Khartoum were very miserable. His wound would not heal andhe saw that he would be a drag on the expedition if he started. Hedecided to return to Cairo, and try and patch himself up there.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

  THE MYSTERIOUS STAB IN THE DARK.

  A few weeks after Raife's unfortunate interference in a Nubian'sdomestic affairs at Khartoum, he was reclining amid soft cushions on thepiazza of Shepheard's Hotel at Cairo.

  There may be no women in Khartoum--at least, there was one, who, beingin trouble herself, made trouble for Raife--but there are women atCairo. Just what the attraction is, no one really knows. It is hot anddusty. There are flies, mosquitoes, and plenty of other irritatinglittle things in Cairo. But Shepheard's Hotel is generally full ofvisitors, and there is a predominance of gaily and richly-dressed women.They come from all countries and speak many languages. The languagethat one hears more than any is that of the United States of America.Americans do not, individually, stay longer, but there are more of them,therefore the supply is greater. Further, the American woman is a goodtalker; that is, she talks quickly and talks quite a good deal. Thereare several of them who talk very well.

  Exclusiveness used to be the prerogative of the English to a greaterextent than most other countries. As the English are becoming lessexclusive, so American women are cultivating the habit. The newgeneration of American women have cultivated, almost inherited, a scoreor more of little habits, mannerisms--perhaps affectations, which arequite charming to the impressionable young English person. There is acertain _gaucherie_ about the English which, in turn, retains a charmfor the American woman. They would openly hate one another if it werenot for these peculiarities, which make the one interesting to theother.

  The limelight of publicity has always been turned on to the American boyand girl from infancy. For that reason they have never suffered fromshyness. Until recently there has been an excess of privacy in thelives of the English of most ages. That has been altered, and now thereare English girls who can rock a chair level with any girl from Kentuckyto California.

  Of course, the voice question had almost as much vogue as the colourquestion. That, in turn, has been altered. There are as many softcontraltos, or, at least, mezzo-sopranos coming from the United Statesas from England nowadays. Altogether, there is less need for antagonismand more need for good fellowship between the United States and GreatBritain, than at any period since "The Great Misunderstanding" of ahundred years ago. This helps to explain the circumstances of the veryrapid friendship that had sprung up between Sir Raife Remington, Bart.,of Aldborough Park, and Miss Hilda Muirhead, the daughter of ReginaldPomeroy Muirhead, Esq., President of the Fifth State Bank of Illinois,U.S.A.

  In writing of Americans it has ever been customary to allude to theirwealth, of which many people possess an exaggerated estimate. Thesuccessful American is, frequently, very generous, and it is from thatfreedom and generosity that the exaggerated notion springs.

  Mr Reginald Pomeroy Muirhead was not a very wealthy man, but he was aprosperous man, and a generous man, a fine and courtly type of theAmerican banker.

  His daughter, Hilda, who had formed such a rapid friendship with RaifeRemington, on the piazza--the balcony--in the drawing-room--on thestaircase--in the foyer--or any of those places where friendships aremade abroad, calls for more description.

  Hilda Muirhead was not more than twenty. In some respects she had theknowledge and experience of a woman of thirty. In other respects shewas a simple _ingenue_, with the attractive grace of a gazelle-likechild. The latter was her natural mood and attitude. The former hadbeen acquired and thrust upon her by the bitterness of cruel experienceat an immature period of her life.

  She had a gift of talk, and the charm of her conversation won for herthe attention which invariably ended in admiration. Many girls, of anynationality, do not realise the value of natural and intellectualconversation. Her father had seen to it that Hilda did. Hilda's motherdied in her infancy, leaving Hilda an only child of a devoted and gentleparent.

  Hilda's appearance was striking in the extreme, and if she had been ofthe "abounding" type who flaunt themselves for admiration, she wouldhave, in an obsolete vernacular, "swept the board." Her restraint andlack of self-consciousness were an addition to her charm.

  Her hair was a glory to behold. Few had seen the full extent of thatglory of her womanhood. Her old nigger "mammy" was almost the only onewho had seen it in its full maturity. Her face had an indefinableirregularity of contour, and showed the southern blood in her veins.Her eyes were only large when she opened them under some strong emotion.They were not of that pertinacious, staring type, that are aggressivelyanxious to attract on all occasions. Her eyes were grey, andconstructed for the purpose of normal sight and restrained emotion--butthey were beautiful eyes.

  The form of her lips had not been moulded into beauty by an assumedpout, nor were they distorted by youthful grimace. They were justwholesome lips, that helped her to talk, and laugh and sing. The restof her face was in perfect harmony. It was not classical on the linesof a Grecian statue, nor an Italian Madonna. It was a modern,fascinating, yet dignified face.

  A broken arm or a bandaged wound invariably attract attention andsympathy, especially from women. Raife's bandaged shoulder, whichnecessitated that the right sleeve should remain empty, attracted theattention of the women at Shepheard's Hotel. His Apollo-like appearanceadded to the effect when he arrived. In addition to the side glances inhis direction, as he reclined on a long wicker chair, shaded from thehot sun which streamed from above, he had to endure the bold stares ofthe more brazen-faced. At this time, Raife had suffered from two women,and he was, for the present, at least, a woman-hater. He, therefore,refused to notice any of the glances that he receiv
ed, whatever theirnature might be. The balcony piazza and foyer of an hotel are very likethe deck of an ocean steamer, and it is not possible for an invalid toresist the advances of those who wish to be polite and render aid.

  Raife and Hilda Muirhead met in such a manner. The foyer was almostdeserted, and Raife dropped his book just out of reach. Hilda Muirheadand her father were passing. Hilda darted forward and restored the bookto Raife, who thanked her.

  Mr Muirhead remarked: "I hope your injury is not serious, sir?"

  To which Raife replied: "Oh, no. It is just a slight dagger wound."

  Hilda exclaimed, involuntarily: "A dagger!" Even in Egypt men are notfrequently suffering from dagger wounds, and the word has a shudder inits sound.

  Mr Muirhead said, smilingly: "There is generally romance surrounding adagger wound, sir. If it would not bore or distress you, perhaps, sometime later, you might feel inclined to