pacing up and down the room in which he, Brian, had interviewed the Sherif Mohammed—exactly as he had seen him from the roof of the neighbouring building. But, in the dream, Brian was in the room; could hear as well as see. And the first sound he heard came from behind the iron grille high in one wall. It was a strange, harsh, but dreadfully compelling voice:
“You have crossed my path once too often, Sir Denis . . .The time has come for me to order, for you to obey ...”
The vision faded. . . . Brian was in Zoe’s arms. “Brian!” she whispered, trembling—”Brian, listen to me! Leave here at once.... I love you, but you must go. Promise me you will go!” But he couldn’t utter a word. He was dumb with fright. . . . Then the harsh voice came again. “Do you dare to forget who is your master?” Some unseen force dragged Zoe away. “Brian!” he heard. “Brian! Answer me . . .”
And Nayland Smith was there again, not in the lofty saloon but in a small room, stone-paved like a dungeon. He was chained by his ankle to a staple in the stone wall. Haggard eyes watched Brian.
“Don’t do it, Merrick! Give me your word!”
And Brian could only gasp, mumble. Not one word could he utter. ...
A sound of banging reached him. He couldn’t move. He was no longer in the stone cell. He was lying in darkness so complete that a ghastly idea crossed his mind. . . . He had been buried alive!
The banging went on. Someone was trying to break into his tomb! A voice came faintly, from a long way off:
“Brian! Brian! Are you there? Answer me. . . .”
It was Zoe!
He was unable to make a sound!
But still he could hear the banging—only it grew less and less audible. . . .
That frightful oppression seemed to be lifting. He found he could move; stretched out his arm. And in doing so he nearly upset the reading-lamp! He was in bed!
Gladly, he switched on the light; got out and ran to the door (which he had forgotten to lock). That banging sound, and Zoe’s voice, still echoed in his ears. He opened the door and looked out. . . . There was no one there.
His wristwatch recorded 3 a.m. His pyjama jacket was damp with cold perspiration. . . .
* * *
He fell asleep analysing this strange nightmare while it was still fresh in his memory. And finally he read it to be a sort of panorama of the half-submerged doubts and fears which had haunted him so long. He saw them now as myths of his imagination, but while they had been present in his mind they were as real as the horrors of the dream.
The next time he woke up blazing Egyptian sunshine was peering in through the slats of the window blinds and he could hear the familiar noises of the busy street below his balcony. The terrors of the night were finally dispersed by a cold shower.
Whilst he drank his coffee and enjoyed the first cigarette (there was no news from London), he called Zoe. She was often out in the morning unless they had an early date, and he had never discovered where she went. But he knew that she rarely left before ten o’clock. She answered at once, and he thought her voice sounded rather listless.
“I believe you were out disgracefully late,” he told her with mock severity. “Admit that I’m right.”
He heard her laugh. “It is true, Brian. But it is not the gay time you think! There is so much family trouble to talk about. My poor Aunt Isobel, who is my father’s sister, has been so ill. She cannot put up with me yet at Luxor, although she is getting better. I told you last night that I am to stay here awhile. Are you glad?”
“Of course I’m glad, dear! Very, very glad. Listen. Are you free for lunch? Because I want you to lunch with me at Mena House and then go and explore the Great Pyramid. Is it okay?”
“Quite very much okay, Brian! When shall I be ready?”
“Is eleven-thirty too early?”
“No. Downstairs at eleven-thirty.”
And at eleven-thirty Zoe came down to the lounge wearing a cream dress which left her arms and shoulders bare. They were slightly sun-tanned to the hue of
The drive out to Gizah was all too short. He held her close in the near privacy of the cab, and this morning, for some mysterious reason, Zoe thrilled him in a new way.
They had some drinks in the Mena House bar and then went in to a cold luncheon. Afterwards they took their coffee out in the garden, choosing a shady table near the flower-draped wall overlooking the road.
Zoe became strangely pensive. Several times Brian caught her glancing at him furtively, as if wanting to tell him something which she hesitated to put into words. And so at last:
“Zoe,” he began uneasily. “Something is bothering you. Tell me what it is. I must know.”
Still she hesitated, glancing around as if she feared to be overheard. Brian reached across and took both her hands. “Tell me, Zoe. What is it?”
“It is something very, very hard to say, Brian.”
He had an uneasy moment. “You don’t mean—you are to see me no more?”
She shook her head, helplessly. “It is not as you think, Brian. I want to see you always. It is that I have to ask you something which, even if it break my heart, for
Brian became really alarmed by her earnestness. Her wonderful eyes were so bright that he knew tears were not far away. “Whatever do you mean, dear?”
“I mean”—she paused, as if seeking the right words—”I mean that, although it will be terrible for me if— someone— find out what I do, I
This incomprehensible request so completely baffled Brian that for some moments he could think of no reply. Part of his dream had come true! Zoe had turned her eyes aside, but tears were gathering on her long, dark lashes; her hands, which he held tightly, were shaking.
He wondered if she had seen Nayland Smith since he had seen him, if it could be something Sir Denis had told her which accounted for her present state of mind. Then it occurred to him that it was odd she hadn’t asked him about Sir Denis’s visit, for he remembered telling her he expected him. He wasn’t dreaming now, yet all this had happened before.
“This would mean—if I did it—that we shouldn’t see each other again?” He spoke in a toneless voice, trying to think.
Zoe didn’t answer. She suddenly dragged her hands away. He saw her eyes—wide with terror. She pointed to the low wall beside which they sat.
“Brian!”—a whisper—”Brian! Down there—I heard someone move!”
Brian sprang up; craned over the wall and looked down . . . Zoe was right.
A ragged old mendicant sat on the dusty road, his back propped against the wall, immediately below their table!
“Hi, you! What are you doing down there?” Brian shouted.
A skinny, dirty hand was stretched out.
Brian caught his breath. He leaned farther over.
“Let me have a look at you!”
The old beggar looked up. One glance was enough.
He was the man who had been seated beside the door of the office building in Sharia Abdin when Brian came out after his useless search for Mr. Ahmad—the man who had been holding open the cab door when he directed the driver to take him to the house of the Sherif Mohammed!
* * *
This discovery shook him badly. He could doubt no longer that he was closely covered; had been in all probability from the moment of his arrival in Cairo. He had been right about this all along, but had suspected the
