THE SECRET
Anthony lifted the flap, holding up the lantern, and we both looked in.
No one was there—but the tent had the look of recent occupation. It was neatly arranged, as the tent of an old soldier should be: but on the table stood a half-used candle stuck in a bottle; and beside it a book lay open, face downward. Entering the tent the first thing I did was to glance at the title of this book. It was a learned archeological treatise. Here and there a paragraph was marked, and leaves dog's-eared. Three other volumes of the same sort were piled one upon the other. Anthony and I had read all four during the last few months, since our minds had concentrated on the subject of pyramids and rock tombs.
"What do you think has become of Corkran?" I said to Anthony.
"I think the djinns have got him," he answered, gravely.
"You mean—"
"I don't quite know what I mean. But—he must have hit upon something, and then—have been prevented from coming back."
"Why should he have had such luck, after a few weeks' work, an unscientific fellow like him, if the secret of the mountain has been inviolate for over two thousand years?"
"Wait and see what's happened to him before you call it 'luck,' Duffer. But you must remember that nobody except Ferlini and a few superstitious blacks ever believed that the mountain had a secret. Incredulity has protected it. And Corkran had to work like a thousand devils if he hoped to get hold of anything before he was found out. I believe he has got hold of something, and—that it then got hold of him. But we shall see."
"Yes, we shall see," I repeated. "And before long if we too have luck."