“Professor Deeping was a thorn in the flesh of the Faithful!”
My visitor’s voice was gravely reproachful.
“Nevertheless his wishes must be considered,” I said, “and the methods adopted by those who seek to recover the relic are such as to alienate all sympathy.”
“You speak of the Hashishin?” asked the old man. “Mr. Cavanagh, in your own faith you have had those who spilled the blood of infidels as freely!”
“My good sir, the existence of such an organization cannot be tolerated today! This survival of the dark ages must be stamped out. However just a cause may be, secret murder is not permissible, as you, a man of culture, a Believer, and”—I glanced at his unusual turban—“a descendant of the Prophet, must admit.”
“I can admit nothing against the Guardian of the Tradition, Mr. Cavanagh! The Prophet taught that we should smite the Infidel. I ask you—have you the courage of your convictions?”
“Perhaps; I trust so.”
“Then assist me to rid England of what you have called a survival of the dark ages. I will furnish porters to remove and carry the safe, if you will deliver to me the key!”
I sprang to my feet.
“That is madness!” I cried. “In the first place I should be compromising with my conscience, and in the second place I should be defenceless against those who might—”