Again I doubted the wisdom of Bristol’s plan.
Had I not fled to the Astoria to escape from the
dangerous solitude of my rooms? That he was
laying some trap for the Hashishin was sufficiently
evident, and whilst I could not justly suspect him
of making a pawn of me I was quite unable to find
any other explanation of this latest move.
I was torn between conflicting doubts. I glanced
at my watch. Yes! There was just time for
me to revisit the bank ere joining Bristol at my chambers!
I hesitated. After all, in what possible way
could it jeopardize his plans for me merely to pretend
to bring the keys?
“Hang it all!” I said, and jumped to my
feet. “These maddening conjectures will
turn my brain! I’ll let matters stand as
they are, and risk the consequences!”
I hesitated no longer, but passed out from the hotel
and once more directed my steps in the direction of
Fleet Street.
As I passed in under the arch through which streamed
many busy workers, I told myself that to dread entering
my own chambers at high noon was utterly childish.
Yet I did dread doing so! And as I mounted
the stair and came to the landing, which was always
more or less dark, I paused for quite a long time
before putting the key in the lock.
The affair of the accursed slipper was playing havoc
with my nerves, and I laughed dryly to note that my
hand was not quite steady as I turned the key, opened
my door, and slipped into the dim hallway.
As I closed it behind me, something, probably a slight
noise, but possibly something more subtle—an
instinct—made me turn rapidly.
There facing me stood Hassan of Aleppo.
I KEEP THE APPOINTMENT
That moment was pungent with drama. In the intense
hush of the next five seconds I could fancy that the
world had slipped away from me and that I was become
an unsubstantial thing of dreams. I was in no
sense master of myself; the effect of the presence
of this white-bearded fanatic was of a kind which
I am entirely unable to describe. About Hassan
of Aleppo was an aroma of evil, yet of majesty, which
marked him strangely different from other men—from
any other that I have ever known. In his venerable
presence, remembering how he was Sheikh of the Assassins,
and recalling his bloody history, I was always conscious
of a weakness, physical and mental. He appalled
me; and now, with my back to the door, I stood watching
him and watching the ominous black tube which he held
in his hand. It was a weapon unknown to Europe
and therefore more fearful than the most up-to-date
of death-dealing instruments.
Hassan of Aleppo pointed it toward me.
“The keys, effendim,” he said; “hand
me the keys!”
He advanced a step; his manner was imperious.
The black tube was less than a foot removed from
my face. That I had my revolver in my pocket
could avail me nothing, for in my pocket it must remain,
since I dared to make no move to reach it under cover
of that unfamiliar, terrible weapon.
