I had work to do in plenty, but I could not apply
my mind to it; and now, although the obvious and sensible
thing was to go about my business, I wandered on aimlessly,
my brain employed with a hundred idle conjectures
and the query, “Where have I seen The Stetson
Man?” seeming to beat, like a tattoo, in my brain.
There was something magnetic about the accursed slipper,
for without knowing by what route I had arrived there,
I found myself in Great Orchard Street and close under
the walls of the British Antiquarian Museum.
Then I was effectually aroused from my reverie.
Two men, both tall, stood in the shadow of a doorway
on the Opposite side of the street, staring intently
up at the Museum windows. It was a tropically
hot afternoon and they stood in deepest shadow.
No one else was in Orchard Street—that
odd little backwater—at the time, and they
stood gazing upward intently and gave me not even a
passing glance.
But I knew one for the Oriental visitor of the morning,
and despite broad noonday and the hum of busy London
about me, my blood seemed to turn to water.
I stood rooted to the spot, held there by a most surprising
horror.
For the gray-bearded figure of the other watcher was
one I could never forget; its benignity was associated
with the most horrible hours of my life, with deeds
so dreadful that recollection to this day sometimes
breaks my sleep, arousing me in the still watches,
bathed in a cold sweat of fear.
It was Hassan of Aleppo!
If he saw me, if either of them saw me, I cannot say.
What I should have done, what I might have done it
is useless to speak of here —for I did
nothing. Inert, thralled by the presence of that
eerie, dreadful being, I watched them leave the shadow
of the doorway and pace slowly on with their dignified
Eastern gait.
Then, knowing how I had failed in my plain duty to
my fellow-men —how, finding a serpent in
my path, I had hesitated to crush it, had weakly succumbed
to its uncanny fascination—I made my way
round to the door of the Museum.
THE WHITE BEAM
That night the deviltry began. Mr. Mostyn found
himself wholly unable to sleep. Many relics
have curious histories, and the experienced archaeologist
becomes callous to that uncanniness which seems to
attach to some gruesome curios. But the slipper
of the Prophet was different. No mere ghostly
menace threatened its holders; an avenging scimitar
followed those who came in contact with it; gruesome
tragedies, mutilations, murders, had marked its progress
throughout.
The night was still—as still as a London
night can be; for there is always a vague murmuring
in the metropolis as though the sleeping city breathed
gently and sometimes stirred in its sleep.
Then, distinct amid these usual nocturnal noises,
rose another, unaccountable sound, a muffled crash
followed by a musical tinkling.
