"Yes, sir, yes, sir!" The Indian was all attention.
"Why"—Cairn pointed forensically at the fortune-teller—"why is Khamsîn come so early this year?"
The Indian spread his hands, palms upward.
"How should I know?" he replied in his soft, melodious voice. "I am not of Egypt; I can only say what is told to me by the Egyptians."
"And what is told to you?"
Sime rested his hands upon his knees, bending forward curiously. He was palpably anxious that Cairn should have confirmation of the Efreet story from the Indian.
"They tell me, sir,"—the man's voice sank musically low—"that a thing very evil"—he tapped a long brown finger upon his breast—"not as I am"—he tapped Sime upon the knee—"not as he, your friend"—he thrust the long finger at Cairn—"not as you, sir; not a man at all, though something like a man! not having any father and mother—"
"You mean," suggested Sime, "a spirit?"
The fortune-teller shook his head.
"They tell me, sir, not a spirit—a man, but not as other men; a very, very bad man; one that the great king, long, long ago, the king you call Wise ——"