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Page 30
Only once had I seen the venerable Hassan of Aleppo--a stately,
gentle old man; but I knew that the velvet eyes could blaze into a
passionate fury that seemed to scorch whom it fell upon. I knew
that the saintly Hassan was Sheikh of the Hashishin. And
familiarity with that dreadful organization had by no means bred
contempt. I was the holder of the key, and my fear of the fanatics
grew like a magic mango, darkened the sunlight of each day, and
filled the night with indefinable dread.
You, who have not read poor Deeping's "Assyrian Mythology", cannot
picture a creature with a huge, distorted head, and a tiny, dwarfed
body--a thing inhuman, yet human--a man stunted and malformed by
the cruel arts of brother men--a thing obnoxious to life, with but
one passion, the passion to kill. You cannot conceive of the years
of agony spent by that creature strapped to a wooden frame--in
order to prevent his growth! You cannot conceive of his fierce
hatred of all humanity, inflamed to madness by the Eastern drug,
hashish, and directed against the enemies of Islam--the holders of
the slipper--by the wonderful power of Hassan of Aleppo.
But I had not only read of such beings, I had encountered one!
And he was but one of the many instruments of the Hashishin. Perhaps
the girl with the violet eyes was another. What else to be dreaded
Hassan might hold in store for us I could not conjecture.
Do you wonder that I feared? Do you wonder that I hoped (I confess
it), hoped that the slipper might be recovered without further
bloodshed?
CHAPTER XI
THE HOLE IN THE BLIND
I stepped over to the door, where a constable stood on duty.
"You observed a tall Eastern gentleman in the room a while ago,
officer?"
"I did, sir."
"How long is he gone?"
The man started and began to peer about anxiously.
"That's a funny thing, sir," he said. "I was keeping my eyes
specially upon him. I noticed him hovering around while Mr.
Mostyn was speaking; but although I could have sworn he hadn't
passed out, he's gone!"
"You didn't notice his departure, then?"
"I'm sorry to say I didn't, sir."
The man clearly was perplexed, but I found small matter for wonder
in the episode. I had more than suspected the stranger to be a spy
of Hassan's, and members of that strange company were elusive as
will-o'-the-wisps.
Bristol, at the far end of the room, was signalling to me. I
walked back and joined him.
"Come over here," he said, in a low voice, "and pretend to examine
these things."
He glanced significantly to his left. Following the glance, my
eyes fell upon the lean American; he was peering into the receptacle
which held the holy slipper.
Bristol led me across the room, and we both faced the wall and bent
over a glass case. Some yellow newspaper cuttings describing its
contents hung above it, and these we pretended to read.
"Did you notice that man I glanced at?"
"Yes."
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