III
It was as we passed along the Shâria el-Maghribi, where I had pointed out the St. James’s Restaurant, better known as “Jimmy’s,” I remember, that Mizmûna uttered a little, suppressed cry, and clutched my arm sharply.
“Oh!” she whispered fearfully, “it is Hanna! and he has seen me!”
With frightened, fascinated eyes she was staring across the street, apparently at a group of curiously muffled natives—and her whole body was trembling.
“Quick!” she said, pulling me urgently, “take me back! if they find me they will kill me!”
“But if they have already seen you——”
“Oh! take me back,” she entreated piteously. “Hanna must not find out where I live.”
Here was mystery; but evidently my first dreadful theory that Hanna was Mizmûna’s husband had been incorrect. Apparently he was not even acquainted with Yûssuf of Rosetta. But whoever or whatever he might be, I silently cursed the lapis armlet which had led me to involve myself in his affairs, as I hurried my companion across the Place de l’Opera and homeward....
We were come indeed unmolested but breathless, as near our destination as that nameless street beside the Mosque of Muayyâd, when Mizmûna suddenly stopped, uttered a stifled shriek, and—
“Oh, save me!” she panted, winding her arms about my neck. “Look! Look! in the shadow of the mosque door!”