She watched me fixedly.
“And I want to know,” I continued, “something that only you can tell me. We have met before, madam, but you have always eluded me. This time you shall not do so. There’s much I have to ask of you, but particularly I want to know who killed the Hashishin who lies dead at no great distance from here!”
“How can I tell you that? Of what are you speaking?”
Her voice was low and musical; that of a cultured woman. She evidently recognized the futility of further subterfuge in this respect.
“You know quite well of what I am speaking! You know that you can tell me if any one can! The fact that you go disguised alone condemns you! Why should I remind you of our previous meetings—of the links which bind you to the history of the Prophet’s slipper?” She shuddered and closed her eyes. “Your present attitude is a sufficient admission!”
She stood silent before me, with something pitiful in her pose—a wonderfully pretty woman, whose disarranged hair and dilapidated hat could not mar her beauty; whose clumsy, ill-fitting garments could not conceal her lithe grace.
Our altercation had not thus far served to arouse any of the inhabitants and on that stuffy landing, beneath the flickering gaslight, we stood alone, a group of two which epitomized strange things.
Then, with that quietly dramatic note which marks real life entrances and differentiates them from the loudly acclaimed episodes of the stage, a third actor took up his cue.
“Both hands, Mr. Cavanagh!” directed an American voice.
Nerves atwitch, I started around in its direction.