Dope - Sax Rohmer

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too far! I am nearly desperate—do you understand?—nearly desperate. Speak! Move! Answer me!”

      But Kazmah preserved his uncanny repose.

      “You are distracted,” he said. “I am sorry for you. But why do you come to me with your stories of desperation? You have insisted upon seeing me. I am here.”

      “And you play with me—taunt me!”

      “The remedy is in your hands.”

      “For the last time, I tell you I will never do it! Never, never, never!”

      “Then why do you complain? If you cannot afford to pay for your amusements, and you refuse to compromise in a simple manner, why do you approach me?”

      “Oh, my God!” She moaned and swayed dizzily—“have pity on me! Who are you, what are you, that you can bring ruin on a woman because—” She uttered a choking sound, but continued hoarsely, “Raise your head. Let me see your face. As heaven is my witness, I am ruined—ruined!”

      “Tomorrow—”

      “I cannot wait for tomorrow—”

      That quivering, hoarse cry betrayed a condition of desperate febrile excitement. Mrs. Irvin was capable of proceeding to the wildest extremities. Clearly the mysterious Egyptian recognized this to be the case, for slowly raising his hand:

      “I will communicate with you,” he said, and the words were spoken almost hurriedly. “Depart in peace—“; a formula wherewith he terminated every seance. He lowered his hand.

      The silver gong sounded again—and the dim light began to fade.

      Thereupon the unhappy woman acted; the long suppressed outburst came at last. Stepping rapidly to the green transparent veil behind which Kazmah was seated, she wrenched it asunder and leapt toward the figure in the black chair.

      “You shall not trick me!” she panted. “Hear me out or I go straight to the police—now—now!” She grasped the hands of Kazmah as they rested motionless, on the chair-arms.

      Complete darkness came.

      Out of it rose a husky, terrified cry—a second, louder cry; and then a long, wailing scream … horror-laden as that of one who has touched some slumbering reptile. …

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      Rather less than five minutes later a taxicab drew up in old Bond Street, and from it Quentin Gray leapt out impetuously and ran in at the doorway leading to Kazmah's stairs. So hurried was his progress that he collided violently with a little man who, carrying himself with a pronounced stoop, was slinking furtively out.

      The little man reeled at the impact and almost fell, but:

      “Hang it all!” cried Gray irritably. “Why the devil don't you look where you're going!”

      He glared angrily into the face of the other. It was a peculiar and rememberable face, notable because of a long, sharp, hooked nose and very little, foxy, brown eyes; a sly face to which a small, fair moustache only added insignificance. It was crowned by a wide-brimmed bowler hat which the man wore pressed down upon his ears like a Jew pedlar.

      “Why!” cried Gray, “this is the second time tonight you have jostled me!”

      He thought he had recognized the man for the same who had been following himself, Mrs. Irvin and Sir Lucien Pyne along old Bond Street.

      A smile, intended to be propitiatory, appeared upon the pale face.

      “No, sir, excuse me, sir—”

      “Don't deny it!” said Gray angrily. “If I had the time I should give you in charge as a suspicious loiterer.”

      Calling to the cabman to wait, he ran up the stairs to the second floor landing. Before the painted door bearing the name of Kazmah he halted, and as the door did not open, stamped impatiently, but with no better result.

      At that, since there was neither bell nor knocker, he raised his fist and banged loudly.

      No one responded to the summons.

      “Hi, there!” he shouted. “Open the door! Pyne! Rita!”

      Again he banged—and yet again. Then he paused, listening, his ear pressed to the panel.

      He could detect no sound of movement within. Fists clenched, he stood staring at the closed door, and his fresh color slowly deserted him and left him pale.

      “Damn him!” he muttered savagely. “Damn him! he has fooled me!”

      Passionate and self-willed, he was shaken by a storm of murderous anger. That Pyne had planned this trick, with Rita Irvin's consent, he did not doubt, and his passive dislike of the man became active hatred of the woman he dared not think. He had for long looked upon Sir Lucien in the light of a rival, and the irregularity of his own infatuation for another's wife in no degree lessened his resentment.

      Again he pressed his ear to the door, and listened intently. Perhaps they were hiding within. Perhaps this charlatan, Kazmah, was an accomplice in the pay of Sir Lucien. Perhaps this was a secret place of rendezvous.

      To the manifest absurdity of such a conjecture he was blind in his anger. But that he was helpless, befooled, he recognized; and with a final muttered imprecation he turned and slowly descended the stair. A lingering hope was dispelled when, looking right and left along Bond Street, he failed to perceive the missing pair.

      The cabman glanced at him interrogatively. “I shall not require you,” said Gray, and gave the man half-a-crown.

      Busy with his poisonous conjectures, he remained all unaware of the presence of a furtive, stooping figure which lurked behind the railings of the arcade at this point linking old Bond Street to Albemarle Street. Nor had the stooping stranger any wish to attract Gray's attention. Most of the shops in the narrow lane were already closed, although the florist's at the corner remained open, but of the shadow which lay along the greater part of the arcade this alert watcher took every advantage. From the recess formed by a shop door he peered out at Gray, where the light of a street lamp fell upon him, studying his face, his movements, with unrelaxing vigilance.

      Gray, following some moments of indecision, strode off towards Piccadilly. The little man came out cautiously from his hiding-place and looked after him. Out of a dark porch, ten paces along Bond Street, appeared a burly figure to fall into step a few yards behind Gray. The little man licked his lips appreciatively and returned to the doorway below the premises of Kazmah.

      Reaching Piccadilly, Gray stood for a time on the corner, indifferent to the jostling of passers-by. Finally he crossed, walked along to the Prince's Restaurant, and entered the lobby. He glanced at his wrist-watch. It registered the hour of seven-twenty-five.

      He cancelled his order for a table and was standing staring moodily towards the entrance when the doors swung open and a man entered who stepped straight up to him, hand extended, and:

      “Glad to see you, Gray,” he said. “What's the trouble?”

      Quentin Gray stared as if incredulous at the speaker, and it was with an unmistakable note of welcome in his voice that he replied:

      “Seton! Seton Pasha!”

      The frown disappeared from Gray's forehead, and he gripped the other's hand in hearty greeting. But:

      “Stick to plain Seton!” said the new-comer, glancing rapidly about him. “Ottoman titles are not fashionable.”

      The speaker was a man of arresting personality. Above medium height, well but leanly built, the face of Seton “Pasha” was burned to a deeper shade than England's

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