“Oh, Shan!” she whispered. “I have never felt so homesick in my life.”
I stooped and kissed her curly hair, squeezing her very tightly; then:
“Rima, darling,” I whispered, my lips very close to one half-hidden ear, “when we get to some place a little nearer civilisation, will you come and see the consul with me?”
She made no reply but hid her face more closely against me.
“If the chief still insists on a spectacular wedding, that can come later. But...”
Rima suddenly raised her face, looking up at me.
“Next time you ask me, I’m going to say. Yes, Shan. But please don’t ask me again until we’re out of Ispahan.”
“Why?” I asked blankly. “Is there any special reason for this?”
“No,” she replied, kissed me on the chin, and nestled down against me again. “But I’ve promised. And if you are good you’ll be satisfied.”
I stooped and nearly smothered her with kisses. I suppose my early training was to blame, and I didn’t know, or even seek to find out, Rima’s views upon the subject. As for the chief, I had known for a long time past that he was thoroughly enjoying the situation.
Had Rima and I openly become lovers, I am convinced he wouldn’t have turned a hair. He was a wonderful old pagan, and his profound disrespect for ritual in any form had led to some awkward moments—awkward, that is, for me, but apparently enjoyed by Sir Lionel.
And at the moment that these thoughts were crossing my mind his great voice came from the window above:
“Break away. there!” he roared. “There’s more serious work afoot than making love to my staff photographer!”
I jumped up—my blood was tingling—and turned angrily. But in the very act I met Rima’s upcast glance. My mood changed. She was convulsed with laughter; and:
“The old ruffian!” she whispered.
“Come hither, my puritan friend,” Sir Lionel continued. “Two cavaliers would have speech with thee!”
CHAPTER EIGHTH
“EL
MOKANNA!”
A conference took place in the chief’s room at the end of the long corridor on the first floor of that queer old house.
The place was untidy as only Sir Lionel could make it. There were riding boots on the bed, and strewn about on the floor were such diverse objects as a battered sun helmet, a camera case, odd items of underwear, a pair of very ancient red leather slippers, a number of books—many of them valuable; the whole rising in a sort of mound towards an old cabin trunk, from which one would assume as by an eruption they had been cast forth.
There was a long, high window on the right through which I could see sunshine on the yellow wall of the Ghost Mosque. Alow, shallow cupboard occupied the space below this window. Set left of this cupboard was a big table on which lay piled an indescribable litter. There were manuscripts, firearms, pipes, a hat box, a pair of shoes, a large case containing flasks of wine ofShiraz, a big scale map, a beautifully embroidered silk robe, and a fossilised skull.
On a low stool at the foot of the bed stood the grim green iron box.
Sir Denis Nayland Smith was standing staring at the box. The chief had thrown himself into an armchair.
“Greville,” said Nayland Smith, “have you ever explored the mosque over the way?”
“Yes,” I replied, to his evident surprise. “But I didn’t find that it possessed any features of interest. Does it, Sir Lionel?”
“According to Smith,” was the reply, “it does!”
“Had you any special reason for exploring the place?” Sir Denis asked.
“I had,” I admitted. “I made my way in this morning through a window on the north side. You see, I imagined—it was probably no more than imagination—that I saw someone watching us from there on one occasion——”
“What occasion?”
The inquiry into Van Berg’s death—when Mr. Jean and Captain Woodville were here——”
“Never mentioned this to me!” the chief began, when:
“All I wanted to know,” said Nayland Smith rapidly. “Be quiet. Barton.” And now he turned. His face had grown very stem. “I want to make it perfectly clear to you both, that we three, and Rima, and Ali Mahmoud, stand in greater peril of our lives, at this present moment, than any of us has ever been before.”
“That’s putting it pretty strongly, Sir Denis,” I said, for I recalled other experiences which I had shared with him.
“Not too strongly,” he replied. “I rarely say what I don’t mean, Greville. But apart from Rima—I sincerely wish she were a thousand miles from Ispahan—there’s a further and. a graver consideration. Sir Lionel here— inadvertently, I admit—has stirred up a thing which at this particular stage of world politics is calculated to sway the balance in the wrong direction.
“I know all the facts, Greville”—he threw a quick glance in my direction—”and I assure you that what I say is true. The blowing up of the tomb of El Mokanna revived the tradition of that minor prophet and brought into unexpected prominence certain living believers of his doctrine, of which accident they were not slow to take advantage. I have the names of several men in Afghanistan, Khorassan, and Persia whom I know to be associated with this movement, whether as legitimate fanatics or seekers after power remains to be seen. But the spread of the thing is phenomenal.”
The chief had begun to walk up and down the room in that caged-bear fashion of his; and since Nayland Smith was also addicted to promenading in moments of intense thought, the latter checked his own restless movements at the first stride and dropped into an armchair which Sir Lionel had vacated, tugging reflectively at the lobe of his left ear.
His words had chilled me. All my fears, which throughout had centred around Rima, came to a head now. I had known for more than a week past that our little party was the focus of malignant forces. Now, chance, or divine Providence, had sent us the man best equipped to deal with such a situation. But his words held no comfort.
“The way in which this cry of ‘El Mokanna’ has swept through the East,” he continued, speaking in his rapid staccato fashion, “points to organisation. Someone has seized this mighty opportunity. Don’t glare at me, Barton. You, and you alone, are responsible for the position in which we find ourselves. Captain Woodville has already told you so, I believe.”
I don’t think the chief would have remained silent under such treatment from any but Sir Denis. He was certainly glaring, and he continued to glare. But the steely gray eyes met his unfalteringly; and Sir Lionel merely grunted and continued his promenade.
“Our chief enemy,” Nayland Smith went on, “recognises the importance of possessing the New Creed, the Sword of God, and the gold mask. This was why poor Van Berg died.”
I heard Sir Lionel groan. He halted, and stood with his back to us for some moments.
“The first attempt failed,” that cool, even voice went on. “It was attended by very peculiar features; they were not insignificant. But—” he paused for a moment, impressively— “the attempt will be repeated. Our enemy knows that the method by which be obtained access to Van Berg’s room has so far defied all investigation. He knows that the green box is no longer in that room—but is here.”
“How can you be sure of that?”
“Because Barton has advertised the fact,” Nayland Smith returned savagely. “Two Persian officials were
