He gave a parting glance round the room,—at the fair tranced form on the couch, at the placid Zaroba slumbering in a corner, at the whole effect of the sumptuous apartment, with its purple and gold, its roses, its crystal and ivory adornments,—then he passed out, drawing to the velvet curtains noiselessly behind him. In the small ante-room, he took up the slate and wrote upon it—
“I shall not return hither for forty-eight hours. During this interval admit as much full daylight as possible. Observe the strictest silence, and do not touch her.
“El-Râmi.”
Having thus set down his instructions he descended the stairs to his own room, where, extinguishing the electric light, he threw himself on his hard camp-bedstead and was soon sound asleep.
VI.
“I do not believe in a future state. I am very much distressed about it.”
The speaker was a stoutish, able-bodied individual in clerical dress, with rather a handsome face and an easy agreeable manner. He addressed himself to El-Râmi, who, seated at his writing-table, observed him with something of a satirical air.
“You wrote me this letter?” queried El-Râmi, selecting one from a heap beside him. The clergyman bent forward to look, and, recognising his own handwriting, smiled a bland assent.
“You are the Reverend Francis Anstruther, Vicar of Laneck,—a great favourite with the Bishop of your diocese, I understand?”
The gentleman bowed blandly again,—then assumed a meek and chastened expression.