Lord John in New York

by C. N. Williamson and A. M. Williamson

  EPISODE VIII

  THE HOUSE OF REVENGE

  This chapter of my life, which stands last but one in my journal, isMaida Odell's chapter rather than mine: and to make my part in itclear, her part should come first. Then the two should join, like adouble ring of platinum and gold bound together with a knot.

  One day Maida waked, after confused dreams of pain and terror. Thedreams were blurred, as she began remembering. It was as if she werein a dim room trying to see reflections in a dust-covered mirror; then,as if she brushed off the dust, and the pictures suddenly sharpened inoutline.

  She saw herself reading a letter signed John Hasle. It seemed to be atrue letter, and if it were true she must obey the instructions itgave; yet--she doubted. She saw herself scribbling a few words on theback of the letter, and hiding it behind the portrait of her mother, inthe room she always called her "shrine," leaving just an end of whitepaper visible in the hope that John Hasle's eyes might light on itthere. This picture was clear, and that of the mummy-case being takenout of the shrine by two men in a hurry. Why were they taking it? Whydid she let it go? Oh, she remembered! The Head Sister had promisedlong ago to try and discover the secret of the past. She knew peopleall over the world, who were grateful, and glad to repay her goodnessto them. Because of the mummy-case and the eye of Horus, those twomysterious treasures, the Head Sister believed that the enemy whostrove unceasingly to ruin the girl's life must be an Egyptian, workingto avenge some wrong, or fancied wrong. She suggested photographingthe mummy, and the pictures of Maida's father and mother, in order tosend snapshots to a man she knew well in Egypt--a doctor. He wouldtake up the affair, out of friendship for her, and with those clues togo upon might learn details of inestimable value. Maida rememberedwriting to John Hasle at the Head Sister's suggestion, asking him tosend the key of the shrine. He had answered, agreeing reluctantly; andto prove her good faith, the Head Sister had offered permission for ameeting at Roger's house. Then had come the letter from John Hasle,with its warning that the mummy was no longer safe in the shrine.Maida had done what he told her to do, and let the mummy-case be takenaway, although the Head Sister had objected, and had even seemed hurt.But the Head Sister had not objected to go to the ship on which JohnHasle said he would sail. She wished to question him before he went,and was as anxious as Maida was to know what danger threatened themummy.

  The girl recalled how, according to John Hasle's advice (brought by hismessenger), she and the Head Sister had exchanged their grey costumesfor blue ones, with veils hanging from neat bonnets. They had donethis in the closed motor according to instructions, and they had goneon board the ship to bid John Hasle good-bye. There instead of findinghim they had found a second letter, written as before on his hotelpaper. It said that the plot against Maida was even more serious thanhe had supposed. At the last moment he had been obliged to stop in NewYork, and appeal to the police to help him thwart it. Her life was indanger if she returned to Long Island, or even to the city, before theenemy had been caught. There was every prospect that he would becaught in a few days, after which John Hasle would sail for Egypt as hehad meant to do, and there unravel the whole mystery. The vendettawhich had cursed Maida's life, and her mother's before her, would beended. She might come into a fortune in her own right, instead ofdepending upon money given by the Odells. He implored her to be braveand take passage on the ship for Naples, though no doubt the HeadSister would oppose the idea. The Head Sister had not opposed it. Shehad read John Hasle's letter, and had offered to be the girl'scompanion to Naples, to take her on to Egypt if necessary. Once, shehad not liked John Hasle; but she was obliged to agree with hisopinion. She believed that he was right about Maida's danger: thingsshe had found out in her researches convinced her that it existed. Theship would not sail for an hour or more. The chauffeur was bidden totake a letter from Maida to John Hasle at the Hotel Belmont, to bringone if he were there, and also clothing necessary for the journey, ofwhich the Head Sister made a hurried list.

  A letter had come back--a hasty scrawl in John Hasle's handwriting--toexpress joy in Maida's decision, and to tell her that the mummy in itscase would go with her on the ship, addressed to his name.

  Maida remembered how ungrateful she had thought herself in doubting theHead Sister's intentions. She had tried not to doubt, for so far inher experience she had received only kindness and sympathy from thatwonderful friend. Wonderful indeed! Everything the Head Sister didwas magnetic and wonderful, like her whole personality. This suddendecision to go abroad for Maida's sake was no more extraordinary,perhaps, than things she had done to help others. She said that shewould wire the woman who stood second in authority over the GreySisterhood, and explain that, for excellent reasons, she had determinedto visit the lately established branch in Cairo (Maida had heard of itand had subscribed, for its object was an excellent one: the rescue ofEuropean girls stranded in Egypt); she would add that she might notreturn for many weeks.

  Maida felt that she ought never to have doubted. As for the lettersfrom John Hasle, the handwriting seemed unmistakable; they could not beforgeries: the idea was ridiculous. She remembered how she had arguedthis in her mind, and how she had tried not to think of herself ashelpless. She was doing what she wished to do! And yet, when she hadasked "What else could I do, if I didn't wish to do this?" the answerwas disquieting. Short of making a scene on shipboard and appealing tothe captain, it was difficult to see how she could go against the HeadSister's urgent advice. She did not try to go against it; and aftersailing, two or three wireless messages signed John Hasle brought hercomfort. It was a coincidence that there should be a band of nurses onboard the ship, with costumes almost precisely like hers and the HeadSister's, chosen apparently at random by John Hasle: but then, afterall, there was a strong resemblance in the dresses of all nurses,provided the colours happened to be the same.

  Even more clearly than the days on shipboard, Maida remembered arrivingat Naples, and being met by an Englishman who introduced himself as anagent of John Hasle. He had a long comprehensive telegram to show,purporting to come from his employer in New York. This announced thatJohn Hasle had not been able to obtain leave as soon as he expected,but that he had learned the "whole secret of the past." Miss Odell wasto put herself in the hands of his agent who would conduct her and hercompanion to Egypt and there to a house where all mysteries would becleared up. She would find herself in charge of important persons, oldacquaintances of her parents, who would watch over her interests andexplain everything connected with her family. All trouble and dangerwould be over for ever. Her brother Roger with his wife, Grace, havingjust returned to New York from the Argentine, would sail with JohnHasle a few days after the sending of the telegram, to join Miss Odelland bring her home by way of France and England.

  Maida recalled with a dull aching of heart and head her disappointment,her uneasiness; how she had insisted upon sending telegrams to heradopted brother, and to John Hasle, in New York, waiting for answersbefore she would consent to go on. The answers came, apparentlygenuine, and she had gone on. There had been two days in Cairo, at thehouse of a rich, elderly man who called himself French, but looked likea Turk or Egyptian. He stated that he was a friend of Maida'sgrandfather who was, he said, a general in Ismail's service. He haddone a great wrong to a noble family of ancient Egyptian aristocracy,who had sworn revenge, and had taken it for several generations. Butnow all its members were dead except one aged woman who wished to seeand atone to Maida for the cruel punishment inflicted on her people.The mummy which had been stolen many years ago was to be given back;and in return Maida would not only learn a great secret, but receive agreat fortune. The house was in the country, and could be reached by ashort desert journey after travelling to Asiut by rail. In order toescape the surveillance of the British authorities, so strict in wartime, she and her faithful friend the Head of the Grey Sisterhood, wereadvised to travel in the costumes of Egyptian women.

  All this seemed hu
ndreds of years ago to Maida, as she relived incidentafter incident. Everything was far in the background of a night in thedesert inn when she had seen--or thought she had seen--a face which hadbeen the terror of her life. Since her earliest childhood she had seenit in dreams, and sometimes--she believed--in reality. It was as likethe face of the mummy in the painted mummy-case as a living face couldbe, except that the expression of the mummy was noble and even benign,whereas that of the dream-face--the living face--was malevolent. Thehood of the caravan leader had been blown aside by the fierce desertwind in a sand-storm, and a pair of terrible eyes had looked at her foran instant before the hood was drawn close again; and, after that--butMaida could remember nothing after that, except a struggle and a suddenblotting out of consciousness.

  She was afraid to wake fully lest she should find herself again in thedesert inn where it seemed that something hideous had happened. Butthe room there had been shabby. This room in which she opened her eyeswas beautiful, far more beautiful than any in the house at Cairo. Itwas soothingly simple, too, in its decorations, as the best Easternrooms are. The walls were white, ornamented with a frieze ofarabesques. There were one or two large plaques of lovely old tileslet into this pure whiteness, and a wonderful Persian rug in much thesame faded rainbow hues hung between two uncurtained windows withcarved, cedarwood blinds. The ceiling also was of carved cedar,painted with ancient designs in rich colours. There was very littlefurniture in the room, except the large divan-like bed on which Maidawas lying; but on a fat embroidered cushion squatted a girl wearing theindoors dress of an Egyptian woman--a girl of the lower classes. Shesat between Maida and the windows, so that her figure was silhouettedagainst the light: and outside the windows was a glimpse of garden: atall cypress and a palm with a rose bush climbing up the trunk: dully,Maida thought that it must be an inner patio, such as her room hadlooked out upon in the house at Cairo.

  "Where is the white camel?" she heard herself say, aloud: and it seemedthat her voice was tired and weak, as if she had been ill.

  The girl who was embroidering looked up. Her face was very brown, andthe eyes were painted. She wore a dark blue dress, which was a lovelybit of colour against the white wall. Smiling at the invalid as at achild, she went to the door, and called out something in a languageMaida could not understand. Then she effaced herself respectfully,stepping into the background, and the Head Sister came in--the HeadSister, just as she used to be at the Sisterhood House far away on LongIsland. She wore a grey uniform and the short veil with which her facehad always been covered in the house.

  "My dear child!" she exclaimed, in her deep, pleasant voice, with itsslight accent of foreignness which could never quite be defined. "Howthankful I am to see you conscious! We have been waiting a long time.You've been ill, and delirious; but I can see from the look in youreyes that it's over now--those dreams of horror I could never persuadeyou were not real."

  Maida looked earnestly at the Head Sister whom she had once so utterlyloved and trusted. Did she love and trust her now? The girl felt thatshe did not. Yet she felt, too, that the sad change might be but thedregs in her cup of dreams. Never had the wonderful woman's voice beenmore kind. "If I tell you a piece of good news, will it make youbetter, or will it give you a temperature?" the Head Sister went on.

  "It will make me better," Maida said, a faint thrill of hope at herheart. There was only one piece of news, she thought, which would begood.

  "Very well, then. It is this: we are expecting your brother and LordJohn Hasle in a few days. Are you pleased?"

  "Yes," Maida answered. She composed her voice, and spoke quietly; butnew life filled her veins. The dullness was gone from her brain, thelassitude from her limbs. She felt as if she had drunk a sparklingtonic.

  "You look another girl already," said the Head Sister. "If thisimprovement keeps up, you'll be able to walk about your room a littleto-day, and to-morrow you may be strong enough to be helped out intothe balcony that runs along over the patio, and leads to the room ofyour hostess. She is impatient for you to be well enough to comethere; and it will be a test of your strength. Besides--I know you areanxious to hear what you have travelled so far to find out."

  Maida could not have explained then, or afterwards, why the HeadSister's suppressed eagerness brought back the fear she had known inher dreams. She would have liked to answer that she preferred to waitand see the unknown "hostess" after Roger and John had arrived. Butsomething told her she had better not say that. Instead, she smiled,and answered that she would try to walk that afternoon, and test herstrength.

  The Head Sister seemed satisfied, seemed to take it for granted thatthe plan she was making would be carried out; and then she made anexcuse to leave the room. The girl Hateb would watch over Maida, asshe had watched faithfully since the day when the unconscious patienthad been put into her care. Hateb, the Head Sister added, had learnedin Cairo to speak a little English and French. Maida could ask foranything she wished. But for a long time Maida did not wish to ask foranything at all. She lay still and thought--and wondered: and Hatebwent on embroidering. She finished a thing like a charming littletable cover on which she had worked a design in dull blues and reds, adesign like the patterns of old tiles from Tunis. Then, pausing toroll up the square of creamy tissue, she began to make the first purpleflower of a new design on another square.

  At last, as if fascinated, Maida did ask a question. She asked whatHateb did with these things when they were finished. Were they for hermistress?

  The girl shook her head, and managed to make Maida understand that allthe women of the household who could embroider sent their work by thenegroes into the oasis town of Hathor Set where there was a shop whichsold such things to tourists. Very few tourists came now, butsometimes there were officers and soldiers. They always boughtsouvenirs for their families at home. Harem ladies sold their work forcharity among the poor, but their servants--well, it was pleasant toearn something extra. This house was often shut up for months. Themaster and mistress lived away, and seldom came, so there was muchtime--too much time--and it hung heavy on their hands unless they werekept busy.

  "I know how to embroider, too," said Maida, "not as you do, but afterthe fashion of my country. I make my own designs. I should love toembroider an end of a scarf or something like that, to show you howfast I can work. Then you may sell what I do, and keep the money. Ifany English or American people come to that shop in the town you speakof they will be surprised to see such a thing if it is displayed well,and they will be glad to offer a good price, because they will bereminded of home. But you must let no one in this house see my work,or they may be angry with you for allowing me to exert myself. It willdo me good, but they will not believe that."

  The girl was delighted with the idea. Her curiosity was aroused to seethe work of a foreigner, which would sell for much money, and she waspleased with the prospect of having that money for herself. She gaveMaida materials, and the invalid sat up in bed to begin her task. Witha pencil she traced a queer little border which might have representedbreaking hearts or flashes of lightning. Inside this border she formedthe word "Help" with her name "Maida" underneath, in elaborate oldEnglish letters impossible for Hateb to read with her scant knowledgeof English. Despite her weakness, Maida worked with feverish haste,and finished the whole piece of embroidery, in blue and gold andreddish purple, before evening. She pronounced herself too ill torise, but promised to make an effort next day. It was in her mind todelay the visit to her unknown "hostess," and meanwhile to send out amessage, like a carrier pigeon. But there was the strong will of theHead Sister to reckon with. The latter gently, yet firmly insistedthat, now dear Maida's delirium had passed, it would do her good totake up life again where she had left it off. The Egyptian woman theyhad made this long journey to meet was impatient. She was unable tocome to Maida. Maida must go to her. Besides, it would bediscouraging to Roger Odell and John Hasle to arrive and find theirdear one pale and ill
. She must make the effort for their sakes if notfor her own.

  This solicitude for Roger and John was new on the part of the HeadSister, who had deliberately taken Maida away from one, and separatedher from the other: but she frankly confessed that her point of viewhad changed. She saw that the girl had no real vocation for the GreySisterhood. If the mystery of her past could be solved, and happinesscould come out of sorrow, Maida would have a place in the world, andJohn Hasle--the Head Sister admitted--deserved a reward for patienceand loyalty.

  These arguments did not ring true in the ears of Maida, but she hadreached a place where it was impossible to turn back. She was in thewoman's power, whether the woman were enemy or friend; and if sherefused to follow the Head Sister's counsel, she believed that shewould be forced to follow it. Maida was too proud to risk beingcoerced; and when the first day after the sending out of the embroiderypassed without result, she obeyed the directress and let herself bedressed.

  The girl suffered a great deal, but she had not lost physical or mentalcourage. She believed that she had sprung from a family of soldiers,and she wanted to be worthy of them, even if no one save herself everknew how she faced a great danger. Something in the Head Sister's airof fiercely controlled excitement told her that she was about to facedanger when, with the elder woman's supporting arm round her waist, shewalked from her own room to the door of a room at the end of a longbalcony--the balcony overlooking the patio garden.

  As she went, the scent of magnolias and orange blossoms pressed heavilyon her senses like the fragrance of flowers in a room of death. It wasevening, just the hour of sunset, and as the girl looked up at thesapphire square of sky above the white walls and greenish-brown roofs,the pulsating light died down suddenly, as if an immense lamp had beenextinguished.

  Maida shivered. "What is the matter? Are you afraid?" the Head Sisterasked.

  "No, I am not afraid," Maida answered firmly. "It is only--as ifsomeone walked on my grave."

  "Your grave!" the woman echoed, with a slight laugh. "That is very faraway to the west, let us hope."

  Yet Maida's words must have brought to her mind the picture of ahighballed garden of orange trees, no further to the west than thewestern end of that house. She must have seen the negroes diggingthere, under the trees, digging very fast, to be ready in time. Shemust even have known the depth and width and length of the long, narrowhole they dug, for it had been measured to fit the painted mummy-casebrought to Egypt from Maida's "shrine" in New York. That mummy-case,long wanted, long sought, was useful no longer. Its occupant forthousands of years had been rifled of his secret. The jewels which hadlain among the spices at his heart had been removed. They were safe incustody of those who claimed a right over them, and the revenge ofgenerations might now be completed.

  The Head Sister tapped at the door of the room, and then, after aslight pause, when no answer came, opened it. Gently she pushed Maidain ahead of her, and followed on the girl's heels, shutting the doorbehind them both.

  The room was very large and very beautiful. Already the carvedcedar-wood blinds inside the windows shut out the light of day. Not asound in the room--if there should be a sound--could be heard even inthe patio or the orange gardens. Two huge Egyptian oil lamps of old,hand-worked brass hung from the painted wooden ceiling. They lit witha flittering, golden light the white arabesquesed walls, the dado oflovely tiling, the marble floor and the fountain pool in the centrewhere goldfish flashed. There was little furniture: a divan coveredwith a Persian rug; a low, inlaid table or two; some purple silkcushions piled near the fountain; and Maida's eyes searched vainly forthe "hostess" who waited eagerly to tell her the secret. The onlyconspicuous object in the room was a familiar one--the paintedmummy-case, standing upright as it had stood in the shrine, far away inRoger Odell's house in New York. It stood so that Maida, on enteringthe room, saw it in profile. She was not surprised to see it there,for she knew that it had travelled with them--by John Hasle's wish, shehad been told--and certainly with his name on the packing-box in whichit was contained. It was easy enough to believe that the mummy had aconnection with the "secret" she was to hear, for always it had beenfor her a mystery as well as a treasure. It was easy, also, tounderstand why the "hostess" should have had the thing brought into herroom and unpacked. But she--the hostess--was not there.

  "Patience for a few minutes, my child," said the Head Sister, no doubtreading Maida's thought. "I have been asked to tell you a story. Itis a long story, but you must hear it to understand what follows. Sitdown with me, and listen quietly. Your questions may come at the end."

  Maida would have taken a few steps further, to look into themummy-case, and see if its occupant were intact after the journey bysea and land: but the elder woman stopped her. With a hand on thegirl's arm, she made her sit down on a divan where the mummy-case wasvisible still only in profile.

  "This room was once made ready in honour of a bride," the Head Sistersaid. "All its beauties were for her: the pool, the rare old tiles,the Persian embroideries and rugs. The bridegroom was an Egyptian of aline which had been royal in the past. I speak of the long ago past,thousands of years ago. He had records which proved his descentwithout doubt. When I say he was an Egyptian, I don't mean a Turk. Imean a lineage far more ancient than the Turkish invasion in Egypt.The family, however, had intermarried with Turks and had becomepractically Turkish, except by tradition. This mummy-case and itscontents was the dearest treasure of Essain Bey, the man who decoratedthe room you see for the woman he adored. Immemorable generations agoit had been taken from the Tombs of the Kings--not stolen, mind you,but taken secretly by a descendant who had proofs that the mummied manhad been a famous, far-away ancestor of his own. Even so, though thisforbear of Essain's had a right to the mummy, he would have let it liein peace, hidden for ever in the rock-caverns of the tombs if illegalexcavations had not been planned. He saved the mummy-case fromviolation, although he could not save the tomb; and though there was alegend that the body was filled with precious things he vowed that itshould not be rifled--vowed for himself and his son and his son's son.

  "The legend ran that the last Egyptian king hid the royal treasureinside the mummy of his father, before setting out to fight theinvader, and that after his death in battle, the secret descended fromone representative of the family to another: but the whereabouts of thetomb was lost, and only found again a century ago through thetranslation of a papyrus. As I said, the mummy in its case wassacredly preserved, and was considered to keep good fortune in thefamily so long as it remained intact. When Essain married hisbeautiful Greek bride he would have given her his soul if she had askedfor it. Instead, she asked for the mummy of Hathor Set. It should behers, he promised, the day she gave him his first boy, and he kept hisword. But with the boy came a girl also. The Greek woman, IreneXanthios, was the mother of twins. The mummy in its case--the luck ofthe family--was called hers. It was kept in this room, where she felta pleasure in seeing it under her eyes. She delighted her husband bytelling him she loved the dark face because of the likeness to his. Hewas happy, and believed that she was happy too. Perhaps she wouldalways have remained faithful, had it not been for an Englishman, anofficer in the service of Ismail.

  "Now, when I speak of Ismail being in power, you will understand thatall this happened many years ago; to be precise it was fifty-four yearsago to-day that the twin boy and girl were born and the mummy given totheir mother, Irene. How she met the Englishman I do not know. Isuppose the monotony of harem life bored her, though she had adoptedthe religion and customs of Essain Bey. She was beautiful, and maybeshe let her veil blow aside one day when she looked out of her carriagewindow at the handsome officer who passed. How long they knew eachother in secret I cannot tell either; but the twins were four years oldwhen their mother ran away with the Englishman. She left them behind,as if without regret, but--she took the luck of the family withher--the mummy of King Hathor Set in his painted case. So, you canguess who was
the man: your grandfather. His name was Sir PercivalAnnesley. He was no boy at the time. Already he had been made aLieutenant in Ismail's army: but he fled from Egypt with the woman hestole--and the booty--and after that they lived quietly in England.They hid from the world: but they could not hide from Essain's revenge.

  "In this room--coming back from a council at the Khedivial Palace inCairo--Essain learned how his wife had profited by his absence of aweek. In this room he vowed vengeance, not only upon her and the manwho took her from him, but upon that man's descendants, male or female,until the last one had paid the penalty of death. In this room he madehis two children swear that, when they grew old enough, they would helpexterminate the children of Percival Annesley, and if unfortunatelythese survived long enough to have children, exterminate them also. Inthis room he branded the flesh of his young son and daughter with theEye of Horus, to remind them that their mission was to watch--ever towatch.

  "Essain turned his back upon this house when it had become a house ofdisgrace, but he did not sell or dispose of it. He had made up hismind that, from a house of disgrace it must become a house of revenge.His will was that the place should be kept up; that servants should beready to do anything they were bidden to do. With his own hands hekilled your grandfather, in sight of Irene and her baby boy, yourfather. Later, Irene died of grief, but your father lived. He toocame to Egypt, and served in the army, by that time in the hands of theBritish. Essain was dead, but Essain's son lived, and had one greataim in his life; to kill Perceval Annesley's son, and retrieve themummy. Perceval Annesley's son was named Perceval too. He met yourmother when she was travelling in Egypt as a girl, and followed her toAmerica. The younger Essain would not have allowed him to leave Egypt,if the mummy had been there, but he had left it at home in England. Sofar as young Essain had been able to find out, the mummy had never beendesecrated: this was the one virtue of the Annesleys: they had left itintact.

  "In New York, your father persuaded your mother to run away with him,when she was on the eve of marrying Roger Odell--old Roger who becameyour guardian. They went together to England, and lived in theAnnesley house, which is in Devonshire. Soon, young Essain's chancecame. He shot your father dead, in your mother's presence; but inescaping he lost sight of her. She knew the curse which had fallen onthe Annesleys. She feared for you, if not for herself. She took you,and the mummy-case, and an Eye of Horus which had been a gift from theelder Essain to Irene, and she contrived to vanish from the knowledgeof Essain the younger.

  "It was only for a time, however, that he and his twin sister--able tohelp him now--searched in vain. He traced the travellers eventually bymeans of the mummy-case. Your mother was dead: but his vow to hisfather was not fulfilled while you were alive, and the mummy of HathorSet under the roof of the Odells. You were too well protected to beeasily reached, but there are many ways of accomplishing an end. Youwere never a strong girl. Plots against your peace of mind wereplanned and carried out. Once or twice you came near death, but alwaysluck stood between you and what Essain and his sister Zorah believed tobe justice. The drama of your life has been a strange one. Your deathalone without the restoration of the mummy would not have sufficed,though, had you died, Essain would have moved heaven and earth to gainpossession of the body of Hathor Set. At last he has obtained it. Theoath of his father's ancestor not to open the mummy was but for the sonand the son's son. That has run out many years ago, and Essain feltthat the time had come to learn and profit by the secret. He has doneso, and holds a wonderful treasure in his hands. The like of it hasnever been seen in the new world, except in museums of the East. Nowthe whole duty of Essain's son and daughter has been accomplished,except in one last detail. What that is, you, Madeleine Annesley canguess. I have finished my explanation. But if you would understandmore, go now, and look at the mummy-case."

  As if fascinated, Maida obeyed. Her brain was working fast. Was herinstinct right? Had she been brought here to the House of Revenge todie, or would this soft, sweet voice, telling so calmly the terriblestory of two families, add that the last sacrifice would not bepermitted? Was the command to rise and look at the mummy-case a testof her physical courage after what she had heard?

  To her own surprise, she was no longer conscious of fear. A strange,marble coldness held her in its grip, as if she were becoming a statue.She moved across the room and stopped in front of the mummy-case.Living eyes looked out at her. She saw the dark face so like infeature to the withered face of the mummy. This was the face of herdreams.

  The girl recoiled from it and turned to the woman who had been herfriend. For the first time the Head Sister had lifted her veil andtaken off the mask always worn at the Sisterhood House. Her faceseemed identical with that in the mummy-case. It also was the face ofMaida's dreams, the haunting horror of her life. Without a word themystery of the mask and veil became clear to her. The Head Sister'sone reason for wearing them was to hide her startling likeness toEssain, her twin brother.

  "The end has come," a voice said Maida did not know whether the man orwoman spoke. As the mummy-case opened and the figure within steppedout, the world broke for the girl into a cataract of stars whichoverwhelmed her.

  * * * * *

  I have told already how I was guided in the direction of Hathor Set. Ihoped and believed that I was right, but even so I was far from the endof my quest. Hathor Set is a small town, important only because of itssituation and the fact that several rich Arabs have their countryhouses on the outskirts of the oasis. Each hour, each moment counted:yet how was I to learn which of the houses was Maida's prison? Judgingby the precautions taken for the first stages of the journey, it was inno optimistic mood that I rode with my little caravan into theprincipal street--if street it could be called--of Hathor Set. Ourcamels trod sand, but to our left was the market, and beyond, a fewshops. In the background the secretive white walls of housesclustered, the plumed heads of palms rose out of hidden gardens, andthe green dome of a mosque glittered like a peacock's breast againstthe hot blue sky.

  It was not market day, and the open square with its booths andenclosures was deserted: but men stood in the doors of two small shopshopefully designed to attract tourists. One exhibited coarse nativepottery, and the other, more ambitious, showed alleged antiques, silkgandourahs, embroideries and hammered brasswork. Above the open doorwas the name "Said ben Hassan," and underneath was printed amateurishlyin English: "Egyptian Curios: Fine Embroideries: French, English andAmerican Speaken."

  I had halted, meaning to descend and buy something as an excuse to askquestions, when a dirty, crouching figure which squatted near the floorscrambled up and flung itself before me whining for backsheesh. "Getaway!" roared my camel-man, who was in a bad temper because of a forcedmarch. He struck at the beggar with his goad, while the shopkeeperrushed forward to prove his zeal in ridding a customer of the nuisance.

  "Wretch!" he exclaimed. "How often have I told thee to depart from mydoor and not annoy the honoured ones who come to buy? This time it istoo much. Thou shalt spend thy next days in prison."

  Between the two hustling the lame man, he fell, crying; and humbugthough he might be, my gorge rose. For an instant I forgot that I hadmeant to ingratiate myself with the shopkeeper, and abused him in mymost expressive Arabic. I scolded my own man, and, without waiting formy camel to bend its knees and let me down, I slid off to the rescue.

  "The fellow is worthless," pleaded the shopkeeper, anxious to justifyhis violence. "It was for Effendi's sake that I pushed him. He isrich. He is the king of all the beggars--the scandal of Hathor Set."

  "Whatever he may be, he's old and weak, and I won't have him struck," Isaid. "Here, let this dry your tears," I went on: and enjoying thesuppressed rage of Abdullah my camel-man, I raised the weeping beggarfrom the ground and gave him a handful of piastres. With suspicioussuddenness his sobs ceased and turned to blessings. He wished me ahundred years of life and twenty sons: and th
en, exulting in the routof Said ben Hassan and Abdullah, defiantly returned to the rag ofsacking he had spread like a mat on the sand. The keeper of the shopglared a menace: but his wish to sell his goods overcame the desire forrevenge; and contenting himself with a look which said "Only wait!" heturned with a servile smile to me. Would the honoured master enter hismean shop, give himself the pain to examine the wonderful stocksuperior to any even in Cairo, and sip sherbet or Turkish coffee?

  I paused, reflecting that it might be better to inquire somewhere else.Humble as the man's tone was, his eyes glittered with malice; and oncehe had my money he would delight in sending me on a wild-goose chase.As I thought what to answer, my eyes wandered over his show window, andsuddenly concentrated on a piece of embroidery. Some smalltable-covers and scarfs of thin Eastern silk were draped on a brassjardiniere. On the smallest of all I read, in old English lettering,the words "Help. Maida."

  I kept my self-control with an effort. For a few seconds I could notspeak. Then I inquired the price of that piece of embroidery, pointingit out. The shopkeeper's fat brown face became a study. He was askinghimself in an anguish of greed how high he might dare to go. "Fivehundred piastres," he replied, leaving generous room for the beatingdown process. But I did not beat him down.

  "That's a large price," I said, "but I will pay if you tell me wherethe embroidery came from. It's an old English design. That's why I'mcurious to know how you got it."

  Said ben Hassan seemed distressed. "Honoured Sir, I would tell you ifI could, but I cannot. It would be as much as my life is worth.Ladies of the harem make these embroideries, or their women. I sellthem, and they use the money for their charities. It is a sacredcustom. I can say no more."

  "I will give you a thousand piastres," I said.

  The man looked ready to cry, but persisted. "It is a great pain torefuse," he mourned. "But I would have to make the same answer ifEffendi offered two thousand."

  "I offer three," I went on.

  But the man was not to be tempted. He groaned that it was a questionof his life. Poor as it was, he valued it. He groaned, he apologised,he explained, he pressed upon me the true history of all theantiquities in his shop, and the five hundred piastres I was ready topay for the bit of embroidery had shrunk in his eyes to a sum scarcelyworth taking. At last, when I turned away, deaf to his eloquence, hecaught me by the coat. "If Effendi must know, I will risk all and givehim his will!" he wailed. "The embroidery came from Asiut. I willwrite down the name of the powerful pasha who is master of the house:that is, I will do so if Effendi is still ready to pay three thousandpiastres."

  I knew that the man was lying, yet my best hope lay in hisknowledge--practically my one hope. How to get the truth out of him,was the question.

  "I must think it over," I said. As I spoke I became conscious that thelame beggar who had crawled off his mat to the door of the shop waswhining again.

  To my astonishment he hurriedly jumbled in English words as if hewished to hide them. Under his appeal, in Arabic that I should buy afetish he held up in a knotted old hand, he was mumbling in English,that he would tell me for gratitude, what Ben Hassan dared not tell mefor money. "Do not give him one piastre: he is lying," muttered thebeggar. "Buy this fetish. Inside you will find explanations."

  The fetish was a tiny silver box of native make, one of thosereceptacles intended to contain a text from the Koran, and to hang froma string on the breast of the Faithful. I threw the man a look and Ithrew him money. Squatting there, he seemed to pick up both before hecrawled away. I burned to call him back as I saw him wrap the sackingover head and shoulders, and start--without a backward glance--tohobble off. But I dared not make a sound. Hassan, if he suspected,might ruin the beggar's plan. I slipped the fetish into my pocket, andtold the shopkeeper that I would content myself for the present withbuying the piece of embroidery. I must reflect before paying the pricehe wanted for information. I should, I said, spend the night at theinn, for I was tired. There would be time to think.

  The inn at Hathor Set is hardly worth the name, being little betterthan the desert borg which, in my mind, I called the Borg of theWatching Eye; but its goodness or badness did not matter. As forAbdullah, he was glad of the rest. I had made him start before dawn inthe midst of a sand-storm which had blown itself out only late in thebaking heat of afternoon when we neared the oasis of Hathor Set. WhenI shut myself into an ill-smelling room of the inn, to open the silverfetish, it was still baking hot, but close upon sunset. If I had notfelt some strange impulse of confidence in the lame beggar who hid hisEnglish under vulgar Arabic slang, I should have resented the coming ofnight. As it was, I was glad of the falling dusk. I could work tofind Maida only under the cover of darkness, I knew: for there was noBritish consul here, no Justice to whom I could appeal. There wereonly my own hands and my own brain: and such help as the beggar mightgive because he hated Said ben Hassan.

  A torn scrap of paper was rolled inside the tiny silver box: but it wasnot a text from the Koran.

  "Dine at eight to-night with the beggar Haroun and his friends and hearsomething to your advantage. Anyone can show you the house," I read,written in English with pencil. If I had had time to think of him muchI should have been consumed with curiosity as to the brown-faced oldman who begged by day, and in faultlessly spelled English invitedstrangers to dine with him by night. But I had time to think only ofwhat I might hear "to my advantage." The mystery of the "beggar kingof Hathor Set" was lost for me in the mystery of Maida Odell, as abubble is lost in the sea.

  The Eastern darkness fell like a purple curtain over a lighted lamp. Iwent out long before eight, and showed a coin as I asked the firstcloaked figure I met for the house of Haroun the beggar. It wasstrange that a beggar should have a house, but everything about thisbeggar was strange!

  The house was in the heart of the crowded town, a town of brown adobeturning to gold under a rising moon. All the buildings were huddledtogether like a family of lion cubs, but my guide led me to a square ofblank wall on the lower edge of a hill. The door was placed at thefoot of this hill; and when a negro opened it at my knock I foundmyself in a squalid cellar. At the far end was a flight of dilapidatedstone steps: at the top of this another door, and beyond the door--asurprise. I came out into a small but charming garden court withorange trees and a fountain. A white embroidered cloth was spread onthe tiled pavement, and surrounded with gay silk cushions for more thana dozen guests. Coloured lanterns hung from the trees and lit withfairy-like effect dishes of crystallised fruit and wonderful pink cakes.

  Figures of men in gandourahs came forward respectfully, and the King ofthe Beggars bade me welcome. He offered a brass bowl of rose-water inwhich to dip my fingers, and as he himself dried them with alace-trimmed napkin he spoke in English.

  "I am grateful," he said, "for your trust. You shall not regret it."Then he went on, without giving me time to answer, "I am a beggar byday, and the beggars' king at night, as you see. This is my existence.It has its adventures, its pleasures; this meeting is one of thehighest. It reminds me that I have English blood in my veins.Besides, if I help you I shall help myself to revenge. My father wasEnglish, but turned Mohammedan for the love of my mother. English wasthe first language I learned to speak. In the days of Ismail I was inhis army--an officer. I was proud of my English blood and I promisedmy aid to an Englishman--an officer, too, named Annesley--aid againstone of my own religion. I helped him to run away with a beautifulwoman. He escaped with her. I was caught, wounded, and cruellypunished. My career was at an end--my money gone. Lame and penniless,I had no power to take revenge. Many years have passed. I was youngthen. Now, I am old. The man who broke me is dead, but his childrenlive--twins, a son and a daughter. They have come home from somecountry far away, to their father's house. I saw them come--I, thelame beggar lying in the street, a Thing that does not count! Twowomen were with Essain, his sister and another who was ill--perhapsunconscious--lying upon a litt
er on camel back. The embroidery yousaw, with the English words which I, too, could read--came from hishouse. It was brought by a negro, to-day, to the shop of Said benHassan, and put in his window an hour before you rode into Hathor Set.But Ben Hassan is afraid of Essain Pasha, the man I speak of, and hewould never have told you anything about his house: he would only havelied and sent you off on a false track in repayment for your money. Asfor me, I can tell all you wish to know: and when you have honoured meby eating my food, I can show you the house. It is not more than amile distant from the town. If you wish to injure Essain, so much thebetter. Because of what his father did to me, and because of yourkindness, I should like to help you do it."

  "For God's sake, come with me now," I broke in at last. "You asked mehere to dine, but a girl's life may be hanging in the balance. Hername is Madeleine Annesley. She must be the granddaughter of the manwho was your friend, and the woman you helped him take. You speak ofrevenge! It is for revenge she has been brought here by the man youcall Essain and his sister who is as wicked as himself. I never knewtill I heard your story what that woman was to him, or why they workedtogether. But now I understand all--or nearly all. I love MadeleineAnnesley, and I know she's in danger of her life."

  "I thought," said Haroun, "there might be some such matter afoot, andthat is why I asked my friends to be here. They are ready to obey myorders, for they count me as their king; and I have chosen them fromamong others for their strength and courage. I am the only one who isold and lame, but I am strong enough for this work. When it is done,we can feast, and we will not break our fast till then. Essain has nofear of an attack in force. His house, though it is the great one ofthe place, is guarded but by a few negroes, the servants who have keptit in his absence. There are orange gardens which surround the house.Without noise we will break open a little gate I remember, and onceinside, with fifteen strong men at our service, the surprise will becomplete--the house and all in it, male and female, at our mercy."

  Not a man of the fifteen but had a weapon of some sort, anold-fashioned pistol or a long knife, and some had both.

  We started in the blue, moony dusk, walking in groups that we might notbe noticed as a band: and it was astonishing how fast the lame beggarcould go. We led--he and I--and such was the greedy haste with whichhis limping legs covered the distance that he kept pace with me at mybest.

  Soon we were out of the huddled town, walking beside the rocky bed ofthe _oued_ or river; and never leaving the oasis we came at last to ahigh white wall.

  "This is Essain's garden," Haroun whispered. "And here is the littlegate I spoke of. Listen! I thought I heard voices. But no. It mayhave been the wind rustling among the leaves."

  "It wasn't the wind," I said. "There are people talking in the garden.Don't try to break the gate. You may make a noise. I'll get over thewall and open the gate from inside."

  "The wall is high," said Haroun, measuring it with his eyes.

  "And I am tall," I answered. "One of your men will give me a leg up."

  In another moment I was letting myself cautiously down on a dark, dewygarden fragrant with the scent of orange blossoms. There was brokenglass on the top of the wall, and my hands were cut: but that was adetail.

  Noiselessly I slid back the big bolt which fastened the gate. The menfiled in like a troop of ghosts, and followed me as I tiptoed along,crouching under trees as I walked.

  The voices, speaking together in low, hushed tones, became moreaudible, though, even when we came near, we could catch no words. Asingularly broad-shouldered man in European dress, with a fez on hisrather small head, stood with his back to us, giving orders to fournegroes. They were out in the open, where the moon touched theirfaces, and we in the shadow could see them distinctly. They had along, narrow box somewhat resembling a coffin, which, by their master'sdirections, they were about to lower by means of ropes into agrave-like hole they had dug in the soft earth.

  My heart gave a bound, and then missed a beat, as if my life had cometo an end. I sprang on the man from behind, and the beggar king withhis band followed my lead. Just what happened next I could hardlytell: I was too busy fighting. Down on the ground we two wenttogether. Essain--whom I knew as Rameses--fought like a lion.Surprised as he was, he flashed out a knife somehow, and I felt itspoint bite between my ribs, before I got a chance to shoot. Even then,I shot at random, and it was only the sudden start and collapse of thebody writhing under mine which told me that my bullet had found itsbillet. The man lay still. I jumped up, released from his hold. Hisface I could not see, but when I shook him he was limp as a marionette."Dead!" I said to myself. "Well, it's all to the good!" and wasted nomore time on him.

  The four negroes were down: they had shown no fight; and already Harounhad begun with a great knife to prise open the coffin-shaped box. Itlay on the ground in the moonlight and I saw that it was the mummy-caseI had seen last in Maida's shrine in New York. There was no doubt--nohope, then! I had come too late!

  Like a madman I snatched the knife from Haroun, and finished the workhe had begun. There she lay--my darling--where the mummy had lain solong. But I was not too late after all. As the air touched her shegasped and opened her eyes.

  There, you would say, with the girl I loved coming to life in my arms,the story of my fight against her enemies might end. But it was not tobe so. There was still the one supreme struggle to come. For Essain,alias Rameses, was not dead. He had feigned death to save himself, andwhile we forgot him he crept away.