Machmout trotted obediently out of the room, and Weston closed the door after him.
“We must be quick,” he said. “It is worth while going and giving the thing a chance, though I wish he had seen something less gruesome. The odd thing is that he was not at the funeral, and yet he describes the grave accurately. What do you make of it?”
“I make that the White Magic has shown Machmout that somebody with black magic is going to Abdul’s grave, perhaps to rob it,” I answered resolutely.
“What are we to do when we get there?” asked Weston.
“See the Black Magic at work. Personally I am in a blue funk. So are you.”
“There is no such thing as Black Magic,” said Weston. “Ah, I have it. Give me that orange.”
Weston rapidly skinned it, and cut from the rind two circles as big as a five shilling piece, and two long, white fangs of skin. The first he fixed in his eye, the two latter in the corners of his mouth.
“The spirit of Black Magic?” I asked.
“The same.”
He took up a long black burnous and wrapped it round him. Even in the bright lamp light, the spirit of black magic was a sufficiently terrific personage.