Sandy pulled himself together with a great effort.
“Greenmantle died that night I saw you. We buried him secretly by her order in the garden of the villa. Then came the trouble about his successor ... The four Ministers would be no party to a swindle. They were honest men, and vowed that their task now was to make a tomb for their master and pray for the rest of their days at his shrine. They were as immovable as a granite hill and she knew it.... Then they, too, died.”
“Murdered?” I gasped.
“Murdered ... all four in one morning. I do not know how, but I helped to bury them. Oh, she had Germans and Kurds to do her foul work, but their hands were clean compared to hers. Pity me, Dick, for I have seen honesty and virtue put to the shambles and have abetted the deed when it was done. It will haunt me to my dying day.”
I did not stop to console him, for my mind was on fire with his news.
“Then the prophet is gone, and the humbug is over,” I cried.
“The prophet still lives. She has found a successor.”
He stood up in his linen tunic.
“Why do I wear these clothes? Because I am Greenmantle. I am the Kaába-i-hurriyeh for all Islam. In three days’ time I will reveal myself to my people and wear on my breast the green ephod of the prophet.”
He broke off with an hysterical laugh. “Only you see, I won’t. I will cut my throat first.”