During the next few days he made more rapid progress toward recovery. Each time he saw the patient nurse, he endeavoured to extract from her the meaning of the position in which he found himself, but without success—she would tell him nothing. He began to get a hazy recollection of a fight, but how it came about, and with whom, he could not recall.
What puzzled him most was this old woman. She was tall and gaunt, of the Arab type, and her face was lined and wrinkled to such an extent that it was impossible to tell whether its expression was kindly or otherwise. When his strength grew and things became clearer to his mental vision, he determined to have an explanation.
Late one evening as the woman came in with the lamp, he broached the subject.
"Mariam," he said abruptly, as she was about to leave the room, "come here. I am strong now, and I want to talk to you. Now tell me all about it. How did I get into this plight? And how came I into this house?"
She eyed him keenly for a moment, then walking over to the bed sat down beside it.
"My son brought you here; you were wounded in a fight with Arabs in Cairo."
"Ah, yes," he said thoughtfully. "There was a meeting and we went to stop it. I remember something of it now. Where is the police inspector?"
"Dead."
"Dead?"
"Yes, dead," she repeated.