That was the story as I heard it half an hour later. For Inspector Bristol, apprised of the happening, was promptly on the scene; and knowing how keen was my interest in the matter, he rang me up immediately. I arrived soon after Bristol and found a perplexed group surrounding the uncanny slipper of the Prophet. No one had dared to touch it; the dread vengeance of Hassan of Aleppo would visit any unbeliever who ventured to lay hand upon the holy, bloody thing. Well we knew it, and as though it had been a venomous scorpion we, a company of up-to-date, prosaic men of affairs, stood around that dilapidated markoob, and kept a respectful distance.
Mostyn, an odd figure in pyjamas and dressing-gown, turned his pale, intellectual face to me as I entered.
“It will have to be put back ... secretly,” he said.
His voice was very unsteady. Bristol nodded grimly and glanced at the two constables, who, with a plain-clothes man unknown to me, made up that midnight company.
“I’ll do it, sir,” said one of the constables suddenly.
“One moment”—Mostyn raised his hand!
In the ensuing silence I could hear the heavy breathing of those around me. We were all looking at the slipper, I think.
“Do you understand, fully,” the curator continued, “the risk you run?”
“I think so, sir,” answered the constable; “but I’m prepared to chance it.”
“The hands,” resumed Mostyn slowly, “of those who hitherto have ventured to touch it have been”—he hesitated—“cut off.”