“Then there are those who know her. Tell me the name of one person only—it is impossible that you should not remember some one who is acquainted with her, who has talked with you of her—perhaps one of the ladies who have been here in retreat.”
The nun was silent for a moment, gathering her recollections.
“There is one, at least, who knows her,” she said at length. “A great lady here—it is said that she, too, meddles with forbidden practices and that Unorna has often been with her—that together they have called up the spirits of the dead with strange rappings and writings. She knows her, I am sure, for I have talked with her and she says it is all natural, and that there is a learned man with them sometimes, who explains how all such things may happen in the course of nature—a man—let me see, let me see—it is George, I think, but not as we call it, not Jirgi, nor Jegor—no—it sounds harder—Ke-Keyrgi—no, Keyork—Keyork Aribi——”
“Keyork Arabian!” exclaimed Beatrice. “Is he here?”
“You know him?” Sister Paul looked almost suspiciously at the young girl.
“Indeed I do. He was with us in Egypt once. He showed us wonderful things among the tombs. A strange little man, who knew everything, but very amusing.”
“I do not know. But that is his name. He lives in Prague.”
“How can I find him? I must see him at once—he will help me.”
The nun shook her head with disapproval.
“I should be sorry that you should talk with him,” she said. “I fear he is no better than Unorna, and perhaps worse.”