She put her hand for a moment to her waist, to make sure that the little dagger there was ready in case of need. She and Abdul Qaiyam had both lost their pistols either in leaving the boat or in the struggle on the sand, but she had discovered that the old man possessed a dagger, and demanded it summarily. She had carried it ever since, safely concealed in the folds of her dressing-gown, and had trained herself sternly not to betray its presence by letting her fingers wander in that direction. Now she assured herself it could be drawn in a flash, and stood waiting. It would look more unconcerned if she remained seated in the Khan’s presence, but it would be easier to take her at a disadvantage before she could rise from the ground.
There was a warning cry outside, and then the blind was lifted, and three men came in—Tom Carthew, the negro who had been waiting at the gate, and a youth richly dressed and jewelled, with a handsome effeminate face—not unprepossessing in appearance, but like all his family bearing the marks of dissipation. Eveleen told herself triumphantly that he shrank under her gaze of righteous indignation. She did not realise that in the semi-darkness of the room, her white figure and wrathful eyes might be alarming. She bowed curtly as he approached, then her hand flashed out.
“No further, please. Stop there,” and though the hand was empty, Kamal-ud-din stopped short a yard from the bed, to look down curiously at Richard’s gaunt form and sharpened features.
“He is certainly very near death,” he muttered to Tom Carthew—much to the latter’s relief. “Tell the Beebee she has nothing to fear. Her husband shall die in peace, and be honourably buried.”
Exercising a wide discretion, Carthew gave the first part of the message only, adding various polite assurances for the sake of verisimilitude. Eveleen’s stern aspect did not relax.
“Tell him I expected nothing less,” she said, which—giving the Khan’s well-known magnanimity and benevolence as a reason—Carthew did.
“Tell the Beebee I am about to restore her what should never have been taken from her,” said Kamal-ud-din—adding, with an unpleasant laugh, “What one husband steals, another gives back,” and Carthew rejoiced that his master had chosen to speak in Arabit rather than Persian. With obvious reluctance to let it out of his grip, the negro produced the Seal of Solomon, still suspended from its steel chain, and held it out for Eveleen to take. She made the slightest gesture of rebuke, and motioned to Abdul Qaiyam, who brought forward one of the trays on which the food had been sent in, and receiving the pendant, presented it respectfully to his mistress. For the first time her eyes ceased to rest coldly on the Khan, evidently to his relief, as she stooped and laid the Seal on Richard’s breast, passing the chain round his neck.
“I receive the trust as an honour, tell his Highness,” she said to Carthew, “and I place his treasure in the safest spot known to me. As long as I live, and Major Ambrose lives, no harm can come to it. If it is removed or injured, the fault will not be ours.”
“Tell the Beebee she can be at ease,” said Kamal-ud-din, rather hastily. “No harm can befall her.”
“Tell his Highness I thank him for his promise of protection, and won’t detain him longer,” said Eveleen, and to her relief as much as his own, Kamal-ud-din went. She heard no more of him till the next day, when Carthew came to ask whether she needed anything.