|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 7
At Tilbury the Mohammedan party went ashore in a body. Among them
were veiled women. They contrived so to surround a central figure
that I entirely failed to get a glimpse of the mysterious Mr.
Azraeel. Ahmadeen was standing close by the companion-way, and I
had a momentary impression that one of the women slipped something
into his hand. Certainly, he started; and his dusky face seemed to
pale.
Then a deck steward came out of Deeping's stateroom, carrying the
brown bag which the Professor had brought aboard at Port Said.
Deeping's voice came:
"Hi, my man! Let me take that bag!"
The bag changed hands. Five minutes later, as I was preparing to
go ashore, arose a horrid scream above the berthing clamour. Those
passengers yet aboard made in the direction from which the scream
had proceeded.
A steward--the one to whom Professor Deeping had spoken--lay
writhing at the foot of the stairs leading to the saloon-deck. His
right hand had been severed above the wrist!
CHAPTER II
THE GIRL WITH THE VIOLET EYES
During the next day or two my mind constantly reverted to the
incidents of the voyage home. I was perfectly convinced that the
curtain had been partially raised upon some fantasy in which
Professor Deeping figured.
But I had seen no more of Deeping nor had I heard from him, when
abruptly I found myself plunged again into the very vortex of his
troubled affairs. I was half way through a long article, I
remember, upon the mystery of the outrage at the docks. The poor
steward whose hand had been severed lay in a precarious condition,
but the police had utterly failed to trace the culprit.
I had laid down my pen to relight my pipe (the hour was about ten
at night) when a faint sound from the direction of the outside
door attracted my attention. Something had been thrust through
the letter-box.
"A circular," I thought, when the bell rang loudly, imperatively.
I went to the door. A square envelope lay upon the mat--a
curious envelope, pale amethyst in colour. Picking it up, I found
it to bear my name--written simply--
"Mr. Cavanagh."
Tearing it open I glanced at the contents. I threw open the door.
No one was visible upon the landing, but when I leaned over the
banister a white-clad figure was crossing the hall, below.
Without hesitation, hatless, I raced down the stairs. As I crossed
the dimly lighted hall and came out into the peaceful twilight of
the court, my elusive visitor glided under the archway opposite.
Just where the dark and narrow passage opened on to Fleet Street
I overtook her--a girl closely veiled and wrapped in a long coat
of white ermine.
"Madam," I said.
She turned affrightedly.
"Please do not detain me!" Her accent was puzzling, but pleasing.
She glanced apprehensively about her.
You have seen the moon through a mist? --and known it for what it
was in spite of its veiling? So, now, through the cloudy folds
of the veil, I saw the stranger's eyes, and knew them for the most
beautiful eyes I had ever seen, had ever dreamt of.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|