“By God!”—it was Sime who now had him by the arm—“khamsin has come with a vengeance! They tell me that they have never had anything like it!”
The native servants were closing and fastening the doors. The night was now as black as Erebus, and the wind was howling about the building with the voices of a million lost souls. Cairn glanced back across his shoulder. Men were drawing heavy curtains across the doors and windows.
“They have shut him out, Sime!” he said.
Sime stared in his dull fashion.
“You surely saw him?” persisted Cairn irritably; “the man in the mask of Set—he was coming in just behind me.”
Sime strode forward, pulled the curtains aside, and peered out into the deserted garden.
“Not a soul, old man,” he declared. “You must have seen the Efreet!”
XIII
The Scorpion Wind
This sudden and appalling change of weather had sadly affected the mood of the gathering. That part of the carnival planned to take place in the garden was perforce abandoned, together with the firework display. A halfhearted attempt was made at dancing, but the howling of the wind, and the omnipresent dust, perpetually reminded the pleasure-seekers that khamsin raged without—raged with a violence unparalleled in the experience of the oldest residents. This was a full-fledged sandstorm, a terror of the Sahara descended upon Cairo.
But there were few departures, although many of the visitors who had long distances to go, especially those from Mena House, discussed the advisability of leaving before this unique storm should have grown even worse. The general tendency, though, was markedly gregarious; safety seemed to be with the crowd, amid the gaiety, where music and laughter were, rather than in the sand-swept streets.
“Guess we’ve outstayed our welcome!” confided an American lady to Sime. “Egypt wants to drive us all home now.”
“Possibly,” he replied with a smile. “The season has run very late, this year, and so this sort of thing is more or less to be expected.”
The orchestra struck up a lively one-step, and a few of the more enthusiastic dancers accepted the invitation, but the bulk of the company thronged around the edge of the floor, acting as spectators.
Cairn and Sime wedged a way through the heterogeneous crowd to the American Bar.
“I prescribe a ‘tango,’ ” said Sime.
“A ‘tango’ is—?”
“A ‘tango,’ ” explained Sime, “is a new kind of cocktail sacred to this buffet. Try it. It will either kill you or cure you.”
Cairn smiled rather wanly.
“I must confess that I need bucking up a bit,” he said: “that confounded sand seems to have got me by the throat.”
Sime briskly gave his orders to the bar attendant.
“You know,” pursued Cairn, “I cannot get out of my head the idea that there was someone wearing a crocodile mask in the garden a while ago.”
“Look here,” growled Sime, studying the operations of the cocktail manufacturer, “suppose there were—what about it?”
“Well, it’s odd that nobody else saw him.”
“I suppose it hasn’t occurred to you that the fellow might have removed his mask?”
Cairn shook his head slowly.
“I don’t think so,” he declared; “I haven’t seen him anywhere in the hotel.”
“Seen him?” Sime turned his dull gaze upon the speaker. “How should you know him?”
Cairn raised his hand to his forehead in an oddly helpless way.
“No, of course not—it’s very extraordinary.”
They took their seats at a small table, and in mutual silence loaded and lighted their pipes. Sime, in common with many young and enthusiastic medical men, had theories—theories of that revolutionary sort which only harsh experience can shatter. Secretly he was disposed to ascribe all the ills to which flesh is heir primarily to a disordered nervous system. It was evident that Cairn’s mind persistently ran along a particular groove; something lay back of all this erratic talk; he had clearly invested the Mask of Set with a curious individuality.
“I gather that you had a stiff bout of it in London?” Sime said suddenly.
Cairn nodded.
“Beastly stiff. There is a lot of sound reason in your nervous theory, Sime. It was touch and go with me for days, I am told; yet, pathologically, I was a hale man. That would seem to show how nerves can kill. Just a series of shocks—horrors—one piled upon another, did as much for me as influenza, pneumonia, and two or three other ailments together could have done.”
Sime shook his head wisely; this was in accordance with his ideas.
“You know Antony Ferrara?” continued Cairn. “Well, he has done this for me. His damnable practices are worse than any disease. Sime, the man is a pestilence! Although the law cannot touch him, although no jury can convict him—he is a murderer. He controls—forces—”
Sime was watching him intently.
“It will give you some idea, Sime, of the pitch to which things had come, when I tell you that my father drove to Ferrara’s rooms one night, with a loaded revolver in his pocket—”
“For”—Sime hesitated—“for protection?”
“No.” Cairn leant forward across the table—“to shoot him, Sime, shoot him on sight, as one shoots a mad dog!”
“Are you serious?”
“As God is my witness, if Antony Ferrara had been in his rooms that night, my father would have killed him!”
“It would have been a shocking scandal.”
“It would have been a martyrdom. The man who removes Antony Ferrara from the earth will be doing mankind a service worthy of the highest reward. He is unfit to live. Sometimes I cannot believe that he does
