“Yes, I know,” said Cecil, with a sigh. “Isn’t it wonderful that he can manage to keep safe when he disguises himself as a native?”
“I am afraid that it shows he has the power of silence, but does not care to exercise it except on great occasions,” said Sir Dugald, with a peculiar smile.
“But what do you think he had better do now?” asked Cecil.
“Lie low for a little, I should say. I am thinking of sending him and D’Silva out to Takht-Iskandar for a week or two’s shooting. Now that the Nausicaa is here, her surgeon can look after the hospital. But I give you fair warning, Miss Anstruther, that if there is any more foolishness on the doctor’s part he will have to pack. If you can impress that on him I shall be thankful.”
And Sir Dugald gave up his place to Charlie, who was approaching, and went away muttering, “She thinks he can keep quiet when he is disguised, so that the natives don’t find him out, does she? I believe they take him for a madman, and so let him go unmolested.” But in this he was unjust to Charlie, who, as he himself had once said, seemed to put on a different nature with his oriental garb.
Cecil returned to the Palace that night feeling nervous and depressed. It was as though a foreboding of coming trouble was hanging over her, and she tried in vain to reason herself into the belief that the depression was purely physical, and due to the fact that the weather was hot and thundery. The next day the storm came. It was unusually early in the season for thunder, but the Baghdadis said they had seldom known a more tremendous storm. It began about mid-day, when Cecil and her pupil were taking their usual rest, and Azim Bey was declaring his views on the subject of a book he had been reading. It was nearly time for dinner, but the sky became suddenly dark, and the trembling servants, leaving their work, crept into the lower part of the schoolroom and sat huddled together. Azim Bey was constitutionally timid on some occasions, and he exhibited now such fear as almost paralysed him. He crouched in a corner, shuddering at every fresh flash of lightning, and trembling violently when the thunder crashed, his face ashy white with terror. The wind howled and shrieked around the house, tearing off projecting portions of the ornamentation, and making such a noise that no one could be heard speaking. Cecil caught a glimpse once, by the glare of the lightning, of her pupil’s face, and its expression surprised her. Fear was portrayed there, as she expected, but also a tremendous determination. Azim Bey’s lips were locked together as though he were defying all the powers of the storm to force him to disclose something he was resolved to keep secret.
The thunder and lightning diminished in intensity at last, the wind ceased to howl, and daylight returned in some measure, but the rain continued to pour down, and the roof was discovered to be letting in water in streams. Azim Bey, whose courage had now returned, roused the servants from their lethargy of terror and set them to work to repair the leaks, finding himself in his element as he sat upon the divan and directed operations. When the roof was made fairly water-tight again, he despatched the women to bring in the long-delayed dinner, and when the meal was over, requested Cecil politely to bring her photograph-album and tell him about her brothers. Cecil complied, wondering to find him so agreeably disposed. Ordinarily, after such a display of timidity as that of the morning, he was wont to swagger and bluster a good deal in order to remove the impression. But this evening his behaviour was perfect. He was deeply interested, as usual, in the young Anstruthers, and particularly in Fitz’s adventures with his latest possession, the camera Cecil had given him, by means of which he had succeeded in sending out to his sister painful and most unflattering portraits of the rest of the family. In after-days Cecil looked back to this evening to try whether she could discover in her pupil’s manner any signs of compunction for the work he had in hand, but she could remember none. He was cheerfully polite, with the kind of politeness a magnanimous conqueror might show to a prisoner in his power. No youthful Black Prince could have been more courteous than he was.
The next morning, however, things were changed. Azim Bey was summoned by a message from his father to attend a grand State ceremony, the investment of Ahmed Khémi Pasha with the insignia of a very exalted order sent direct from Constantinople by the hands of a special functionary. The welcome to be accorded to the envoy of the Padishah, and the formalities of the investiture, would occupy the whole day, and Azim Bey resented strongly the command he received to be present. He grumbled for some time because Cecil could not come with him, and went off at last in a very bad temper, leaving her pleasantly occupied in writing her letters home.
It was Um Yusuf who first scented something wrong. Cecil could never discover whether her silent attendant had suspected that mischief was brewing, and had laid her plans accordingly, or not; but it is certain that she could not be found when Azim Bey desired to speak to her, and give her a few directions for her mistress’s comfort before he went out, and that she reappeared some time after his departure, with the excuse that she had met her cousin in the bazaar and had been having a talk with her. This she explained volubly in the presence of Basmeh Kalfa and old Ayesha, and then curled herself up on the carpet for her mid-day nap; but as soon as the other two had dropped off to sleep, she rose, and approaching Cecil with her finger on her lips, laid a note on the table before her. The handwriting was Lady Haigh’s, and Cecil tore the envelope open in alarm. The letter was short:—
“My dearest Cecil,—Come to me immediately. Let nothing prevent you, if you wish to escape eternal regret. Put on your riding-habit under your sheet, and bring no one but Um Yusuf.”