He saw her standing there in the light of a large electric globe, her black hair as vivid as a strong colour, her skin white like marble, her eyes occult in their serenity, her lips smiling encouragement to him; but in the same glance he saw also a group of persons standing before the cashier’s office in the otherwise empty hall, and instantly he knew that the crisis of his life was upon him.
There, fat but alert, stood Mrs. Darling, still wearing day-dress and hat; beside her was a quiet-looking Englishman who was the British Consul, and with whom Jim had had dealings in his gold-mining days; on her other hand was an Egyptian police-officer; and next to him was the proprietor of the hotel, whose face was turned in contemplation of the native policeman standing at the main entrance. It was evident on the instant that as soon as Mrs. Darling had caught sight of him on his arrival she had communicated with the police, who, in their turn, had fetched the Consul.
As Jim appeared at the head of the stairs Mrs. Darling clutched at the Consul’s arm. “There he is!” she exclaimed excitedly, pointing an accusing finger at him. “That’s the man!”
He saw Monimé swing round and face them; he saw the policeman put his hand to his hip-pocket, and turn to the Consul for instructions; and, as though a flame had been set to straw, his anger blazed up into unreasoning, passionate hate of all that these people stood for.
Instantly he whipped out his revolver and shouted to them: “Put up your hands, or I shoot!” at the same time running downstairs and straight at them across the hall—a wild, grey-flannelled figure, his dark hair tumbling over his pallid face, and his eyes burning like coals of fire. All the hands in the group went up together, and he saw Mrs. Darling’s face grow livid with alarm.
Monimé ran forward. “Jim! Oh, Jim!” she cried, trying to seize his arm.
“I’m innocent!” he gasped. “But I won’t be taken alive by a damned set of bungling parasites.”
Still covering them with his revolver he backed towards the garden entrance, and the next moment was out in the chill night air and running like a madman down the path between the palms and shrubs. The darkness was intense, and more than once he fell into the flower-beds, kicking the soft earth in all directions. He heard shouts and cries behind, but the thunder of his own brain rendered these meaningless as he dashed onwards under the stars.
Soon he came to the back wall of the garden, and this he scaled like a cat, dropping into the narrow lane on the other side and continuing his flight between the walls of the silent native huts and enclosures. At length he emerged, breathless, into the open space not far from the railway-station, where, under a flickering street-lamp, a two-horsed carriage was standing awaiting hire.
He hailed the red-fezzed driver with as much composure as he could command, and told him to drive “like the wind” to the temple of Karnak. This, at any rate, would take him clear of the town, and near the open fields; and to the driver he would seem to be but a somewhat impatient Cook’s tourist, anxious to see the ruins by night. Perhaps there was no need to kill himself: he might go into hiding and ultimately fly to the uttermost ends of the earth.