Abû Tabâh shrugged his shoulders.
“She is an unveiled woman,” he said contemptuously, “but love in the heart of such a one as Ahmad is a terrible passion, consuming the vitals and rendering whom it afflicts either a partaker of Paradise or as one of the evil ginn.”
“In the particular case under consideration,” I said, “it would seem distinctly to have produced the latter and less agreeable symptoms.”
“Let your friend step warily,” advised Abû Tabâh; “for some who have aroused the enmity of the Black Darwîshes have met with strange ends, nor has it been possible to fix responsibility upon any member of the order.”
“You think my poor friend, Felix Bréton, may be discovered some morning in an unpleasantly messy condition?”
“The Black Darwîshes do not employ the knife,” answered Abû Tabâh; “they employ strange and more subtle weapons.”
I stared hard at him in the darkness. I thought I knew my Cairo, but this sounded unpleasantly mysterious. However—
“I am indebted to you, Abû Tabâh,” I said, “for your timely warning. As you know, I always personally avoid any possibility of misunderstanding in regard to my relations with Egyptian womenfolk.”
“With some rare exceptions,” agreed Abû Tabâh, “particulars of which escape my memory at the moment, you have always been a model of discretion, Kernaby Pasha.”