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Page 44
"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.
From behind the slightly opened door of No. 48 protruded a steel
barrel, pointed accurately at my head!
I hesitated, glancing from the woman toward the open door.
"Do it quick!" continued the voice incisively. "You are up against
a desperate man, Mr. Cavanagh. Raise your hands. Carneta, relieve
Mr. Cavanagh of his gun!"
Instantly the girl, with deft fingers, had obtained possession of
my revolver.
"Step inside," said the crisp, strident voice. Knowing myself
helpless and quite convinced that I was indeed in the clutches of
desperate people, I entered the doorway, the door being held open
from within. She whom I had heard called Carneta followed. The
door was reclosed; and I found myself in a perfectly bare and dim
passageway. From behind me came the order--
"Go right ahead!"
Into a practically unfurnished room, lighted by one gas jet, I
walked. Some coarse matting hung before the two windows and a
fairly large grip stood on the floor against one wall. A gas-ring
was in the hearth, together with a few cheap cooking utensils.
I turned and faced the door. First entered Carneta, carrying the
basket; then came a man with a revolver in his left hand and his
right arm strapped across his chest and swathed in bandages. One
glance revealed the fact that his right hand had been severed--
revealed the fact, though I knew it already, that my captor was
Earl Dexter.
He looked even leaner than when I had last seen him. I had no doubt
that his ghastly wound had occasioned a tremendous loss of blood.
His gaunt face was positively emaciated, but the steely gray eyes
had lost nothing of their brightness. There was a good deal about
Mr. Earl Dexter, the cracksman, that any man must have admired.
"Shut the door, Carneta," he said quietly. His companion closed
the door and Dexter sat down on the grip, regarding me with his
oddly humorous smile.
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