Upchurned in bloody foam became the water of that
dreadful place . . . . As one recalls the incidents
of a fevered dream, I recall dragging Carneta away
from the contorted body of the death-stricken reptile.
A nightmare chaos of horrid, revolting sights and
sounds forms my only recollection of quitting the
dungeon of the slipper.
I succeeded in carrying her up the stairs and out
through the empty rooms on to the verandah; but there,
from sheer exhaustion, I laid her down. I had
no means of reviving her and I lacked the strength
to carry her farther. Having recharged my revolver,
I stood watching her where she lay, wanly beautiful
in the dim light.
There was no doubt in my mind respecting the fate
of Earl Dexter, nor could I doubt that the slipper
in the dungeon below was a duplicate of the real one.
It was a death-trap into which he had lured Dexter
and which he had left baited for whomsoever might trace
the cracksman to the Gate House. Why Hassan should
have remained behind, unless from fanatic lust of
killing, I could not imagine.
When at last the fresher night air had its effect,
and Carneta opened her eyes, I led her to the gates,
nor did she offer the slightest resistance, but looked
dully before her, muttering over and over again, “Earl,
Earl!”
The gates were open; we passed out on to the open
road. No man pursued us, and the night was gravely
still.
SIX GRAY PATCHES
When the invitation came from my old friend Hilton
to spend a week “roughing it” with him
in Warwickshire I accepted with alacrity. If
ever a man needed a holiday I was that man. Nervous
breakdown threatened me at any moment; the ghastly
experience at the Gate House together with Carneta’s
grief-stricken face when I had parted from her were
obsessing memories which I sought in vain to shake
off.
A brief wire had contained the welcome invitation,
and up to the time when I had received it I had been
unaware that Hilton was back in England. Moreover,
beyond the fact that his house, “Uplands,”
was near H—, for which I was instructed
to change at New Street Station, Birmingham, I had
little idea of its location. But he added “Wire
train and will meet at H—“; so that
I had no uneasiness on that score.
I had contemplated catching the 2:45 from Euston,
but by the time I had got my work into something like
order, I decided that the 6:55 would be more suitable
and decided to dine on the train.
Altogether, there was something of a rush and hustle
attendant upon getting away, and when at last I found
myself in the cab, bound for Euston, I sat back with
a long-drawn sigh. The quest of the Prophet’s
slipper was ended; in all probability that blood-stained
relic was already Eastward bound. Hassan of
Aleppo, its awful guardian, had triumphed and had
escaped retribution. Earl Dexter was dead.
I could not doubt that; for the memory of his beautiful
accomplice, Carneta, as I last had seen her, broken-hearted,
with her great violet eyes dulled in tearless agony—have
I not said that it lived with me?
