"I gathered from their remarks that an additional corpse would be easily enough handled. And I didn't wish to arouse suspicion by loitering."
"Very good, Ismail," replied Zantut. "It seems that our enemy is in good hands: either dead or imprisoned. That saves us considerable annoyance. Being strangers, we could not handle an assassination as safely or effectively as the son of our Lord the Shareef."
"But why," queried one of the adepts, "should Sayyid Absál have killed or captured this madman, Rankin?"
"Iblis alone can say. Power and praise to Thousand-Eyed Malik Taûs!"
"Praise and power to him!" intoned the assembled adepts in unison as they made with their left hands a curious fleeting gesture.
"It may be," continued Zantut, "that the Shareef or Sayyid Absál doubted that Rankin is indeed the Elect, the reincarnated Abdemon who alone can thwart Iblis on the 14th of Nisan. Which is all the better; for then one of us can very easily approach the Shareef claiming to be the Elect, get possession of the lady Azizah on the pretext of breaking the spell that clouds her senses on nights of the full moon, and then seek the hidden vault. But it is late. Humayd, stand guard while we sleep."
Humayd took his post, scimitar in hand.
Zantut set aside his scrolls and stretched out on his divan. The adepts extinguished the flaring lamps and lay down on the thick rug at the foot of the Master's couch.
"Well," thought Rankin, as he surveyed his cell by the light of the jailer's torch as the barred door clanged shut, "I've been in worse holes than this."