“Yes, I am ready now,” Jim replied very quietly.
He unloaded his revolver, shaking the cartridges into his hand, thereafter holding out the empty weapon to the native policeman, who, being a Soudani, was the first to take the risk of approach.
“Give me the handcuffs,” said the Consul to the police officer.
Jim extended his wrists, and as he did so his face was averted and his eyes were fixed upon Monimé. On her lips was the smile of Hathor and of Isis—serene, confident, inscrutable, all-wise.
Chapter XXII: THE SHADOW OF DEATH
Jim spent the night at the police-station, where a military camp-bed was provided for him in an empty whitewashed room. Late in the evening his overcoat, guitar-case and kit-bag were brought to him from the hotel, the latter containing a few clothes and necessaries; and, pinned to his pyjamas, was a sheet of notepaper upon which, in Monimé’s handwriting, were the pencilled words: “Keep up your spirits. I shall come to England with you, my beloved.”
A surprising languor had descended upon him after the excitements of the evening, and it was not long before he fell into a profound sleep, from which he was aroused before daybreak by the entrance of a native policeman, who deposited a candle upon the cement floor and informed him that he was to be taken down to Cairo by the day train due to depart at dawn. A cup of native coffee was presently brought in, together with a pile of stale sandwiches, which, he was told, had been sent from the hotel on the previous evening; but, having no appetite, he placed these in the pocket of his coat.
After the lapse of a dreary and bitterly cold half hour, the Consul entered the cell, bluntly bidding him good morning. “I have orders,” he said, “to bring you down to Cairo myself.”