“Where have I met that woman before?” Barbara asked herself, as she crossed to tile stove to get warm. The woman’s face seemed to be connected in her mind with something unpleasant, something she wanted to forget. Then a light dawned on her. Why, it was...
A shrill cry broke in upon her meditations, a harsh scream of rage. Barbara turned quickly and saw Nur-el-Din standing in the centre of the room. She was transfigured with passion. Her whole body quivered, her nostrils were dilated, her eyes flashed fire, and she pointed an accusing finger at Barbara.
“Ah! misérable!” she cried in a voice strangled with rage, “ah! misérable! Te voila enfin!”
A cold chill struck at Barbara’s heart. Wherever she went, the hideous spectre of the tragedy of her father seemed to follow her. And now Nur-el-Din had come to upbraid her with losing the treasure she had entrusted to her.
“Nur-el-Din,” the girl faltered in a voice broken with tears.
“Where is it? Where is the silver box I gave into your charge? Answer me. Mais réponds, donc, canaille!”
The dancer stamped furiously with her foot and advanced menacingly on Barbara.
An undersized; yellow-faced man came quickly out of the small door leading from the bar and stood an instant, a helpless witness of the scene, as men are when women quarrel.
Nur-el-Din rapped out an order to him in a tongue which was unknown to Barbara. It sounded something like Russian. The man turned and locked the door of the bar, then stepped swiftly across the room and bolted the outer door.
Barbara recognized the threat that the action implied and it served to steady her nerves. She shrank back no longer but drew herself up and waited calmly for the dancer to reach her.