“Omar Ali Khân?”——I began.
“Ah,” continued Abû Tabâh, “to you that name conveys nothing, but to me it signifies Omar of Ispahân, ‘the Father of Thieves.’ Do you remember,” fixing his strange eyes hypnotically upon me, “the theft of the sacred burko of Nefîseh?”
“Quite well,” I replied hastily; since the incident represented an unpleasant memory.
“It was Omar of Ispahân who stole it from the shrine. It was Omar of Ispahân who stole the blue diamond of the Rajah of Bagore from the treasure-room at Jullapore, and Omar of Ispahân”—lowering his voice almost to a whisper—“who stole the Holy Carpet ere it reached Mecca!”
“What!” I cried. “When did that happen? I never heard of such an episode!”
Abû Tabâh raised his long, slim hand warningly.
“Be cautious!” he whispered; “the flowers of the garden, the palms in the grove, the very sands of the desert have ears! The lightest word spoken in the harêm of the Khedive, or breathed from a minaret of the Citadel, is heard by Omar of Ispahân! The holy covering for the Kaaba was restored, on payment of a ruinous ransom by the Sherîf of Mecca, and none save the few ever knew of its loss.”
For a time I was silent; words failed me; for the veil of the Kaaba, miscalled “the Carpet,” is about the size of a bowling-green; then—
“In what manner does this affair concern you, Abû Tabâh?” I asked.