Suddenly she raised her veil; and I looked fully into
the only really violet eyes I had ever beheld.
Mentally, I started. For the face framed in
the snowy fur was the most bewitchingly lovely imaginable.
One rebellious lock of wonderful hair swept across
the white brow. It was brown hair, with an incomprehensible
sheen in the high lights that suggested the heart of
a blood-red rose.
“Oh,” she cried, “promise me that
you will never breathe a word to any one about my
visit!”
“I promise willingly,” I said; “but
can you give me no hint?”
“Honestly, truly, I cannot, dare not, say more!
Only promise that you will do as I ask!”
Since I could perceive no alternative—
“I will do so,” I replied.
“Thank you—oh, thank you!”
she said; and dropping her veil again she walked rapidly
away from me, whispering, “I rely upon you.
Do not fail me. Good-bye!”
Her conspicuous white figure joined the hurrying throngs
upon the pavement beyond. My curiosity brooked
no restraint. I hurried to the end of the courtway.
She was crossing the road. From the shadows
where he had lurked, a man came forward to meet her.
A vehicle obstructed the view ere I could confirm
my impression; and when it had passed, neither my
lovely visitor nor her companion were anywhere in
sight.
But, unless some accident of light and shade had deceived
me, the man who had waited was Ahmad Ahmadeen!
It seemed that some astral sluice-gate was raised;
a dreadful sense of foreboding for the first time
flooded my mind. Whilst the girl had stood before
me it had been different—the mysterious
charm of her personality had swamped all else.
But now, the messenger gone, it was the purport of
her message which assumed supreme significance.
Written in odd, square handwriting upon the pale amethyst
paper, this was the message—
Prevail upon Professor Deeping to
place what he has in the brown
case in the porch of his house to-night. If
he fails to do so,
no power on earth can save him from the Scimitar
of Hassan.
A
friend.
“Hassan of Aleppo”
Professor Deeping’s number was in the telephone
directory, therefore, on returning to my room, where
there still lingered the faint perfume of my late
visitor’s presence, I asked for his number.
He proved to be at home.
“Strange you should ring me up, Cavanagh,”
he said; “for I was about to ring you up.”
“First,” I replied, “listen to the
contents of an anonymous letter which I have received.”
(I remembered, and only just in time, my promise to
the veiled messenger.)
“To me,” I added, having read him the
note, “it seems to mean nothing. I take
it that you understand better than I do.”
