“He has murdered her!” said Bréton, in a dull monotonous voice—“that fiend of whom you warned me.”
I was appalled; for I had been utterly unprepared for such a tragedy.
“Who discovered her?”
“No one discovered her; she will never be discovered! He has buried her body in some secret spot in the desert.”
My amazement grew with every word that he uttered, and presently—
“Then how in Heaven’s name did you learn of her murder?” I asked.
Felix Bréton, who had begun to pace up and down the room, a truly pitiable figure, paused and looked at me wildly.
“You will think that I am mad, Kernaby,” he said; “but I must tell you—I must tell someone. I could see that you were incredulous when I spoke to you of reincarnation, but I was right, Kernaby, I was right! Either that or my reason is deserting me.”
My opinion inclined distinctly in the direction of the latter theory, but I remained silent, watching Bréton’s haggard face.
“To-night,” he continued, “as I sat looking at my unfinished picture and trying to imagine what could have become of Yâsmîna, the mummy—the mummy of the priestess—spoke to me!”