That quiet shuffling had ceased. The air was indescribably stuffy, as one finds in such places. I knelt, resting my shoulder against the side of the opening, hoping that I might have some view of the outer chamber if anyone carrying a light should enter it.
Hard breathing in my ear told of Weymouth's nearness. Of the size or shape of the place in which we were hiding I had formed no impression whatever.
Then, they began to advance again... soft footsteps. "Whoever comes," Weymouth whispered, "don't stir!" There was absolute silence. If found myself listening to the ticking of my wrist-watch. A minute passed.
Then dawned a dim light. It outlined the triangle beside the portcullis.
The light increased. I recognized it as the ray of an electric lamp. And in some strange way this discovery was a relief. I suppose, without recognising the fact, I had been in the grip of superstitious fear. God knows what I had expected! But the approaching threat became less horrible at the moment I realized the presence of modem science in its equip- ment. Weymouth's breathing had ceased to be audible. A figure appeared in the opening ... a fan of white light spread itself across the floor.
The figure stooped and entered.... I saw an Arab woman robed in shapeless black, her pose furtive. She held a flash-lamp, casting its ray all about the burial chamber. This was anomaly enough. But I was less concerned with it than with the hand that held the torch....
A delicate slender hand it was, nurtured in indolence--an unforgettable hand, delicious yet repellent, with pointed, varnished nails: a cultured hand possessing the long, square- jointed thumb of domination; a hand cruel for all its softness as the velvet paw of a tigress.
My breath came sharply. Weymouth's fingers gripped my shoulder.
Had he seen what I had seen? Did he understand? The woman crossed in the direc- tion of the sarcophagus. I saw that she wore loose slippers--that her ankles were of that same dull ivory as the chaste, voluptuous hand.
She disappeared. Only by those shadows which the torchlight cast could I judge of her movements. She went all but silently in those soft slippers, but I thought that she had stooped to examine the sarcophagus. Appar- ently she made no attempt to raise its wooden lid. The light grew brighter--ever brighter.
She was approaching the low entrance to that antechamber in which we crouched! At the very threshold she paused.
The light of her lamp painted a white fan which extended to within a few inches of my knees, touching nothing but rugged floor. By cheer chance--as I thought, then--no one of us came within its radius.
It moved, shining now directly upon the triangular opening beside the portcullis. I could see the woman's body as a dim outline. She stooped and went out. I listened to the rubble moving beneatlrher slippered feet as she mounted the sloping passage. Weymouth's breathing became audible again close to my ear. The sound receded ... receded... and ceased; then:
"Quiet!" Weymouth whispered. "Don't move until I give the word."
My legs were aching because of the discomfort of my position, but I stuck to it, still listening intently.
Absolute silence....
"Alt," Weymouth directed. "Uncover the light."
Ali Mahmoud dragging his robe from the lantern, dim yellow light showed us the low- roofed, rough-hewn chamber in which we crouched.
"Effendim!" Ali exclaimed, in quivering tones. "I saw him when first we came in. Look!"
Face downwards upon a mound of rubbish in an angle farthest from the entrance was a brown man, naked except for his loin- cloth and dark turban knotted tightly about his head!
"He is cold," Ali continued; "and as I knelt in the darkness I had to support my weight upon his dead body...."
4
On hands and knees I crawled out into the passage. I contrived to make no sound.
I looked to my left.
Ali's lantern was just visible at the bend. Standing upright, I headed for it, stepping warily. At the comer I dropped to my knees again and stared up the slope. She was not in sight: I could trace the path beyond the wall to the next bend.
I proceeded....
In view of the ladders I pulled up. A vague light, moon rays on black velvet, broke the darkness. I thought perhaps it came down the shaft... but it began to fade.
I hurried forward. I reached our excava- tion and looked up. No one was on the ladders.
Hopelessly puzzled I stood, listening.
And in that complete stillness I heard it again... the sound of footsteps softly receding....
She had gone up the steep slope which led to the former entrance--but which now ended in an impassable mass of rock! I had her!
Weymouth's instructions were forgotten. I meant to make a capture! This woman was the clue to the mystery.... It was she who had stolen the chiefs body--and even without the clue provided by Rima's camera, I should have known her in spite of disguise.
Madame Ingomar!
Scrambling over irregular masses of stone, I had not gone five paces, I suppose, before a definite fact intruded itself. Whereas the air in the lower passage was fetid, almost unbreathable, here it was comparatively fresh.
I came to the angle, rounded it, and stopped.... I shot the ray of a torch ahead, expecting a wall of rock.
An irregular opening, some five feet high, yawned, caver-nesque, right of the passage! Running forward, I climbed through, throwing the ray of my torch before me. This opening had been completed at some earlier time, closed up and camouflaged.
I stood in a shallow pit. A ladder rested beside me, rearing its length into the darkness above. All this I saw as I stared upward, intently.
Light in hand, I mounted the ladder.... I found myself in a low tunnel. I stood still, listening, but could detect no sound. I pushed on, cautiously, the air growing ever fresher, until suddenly recognition came.
Switching off the light, I stared up to an opening where one pale star hung like a diamond pendant.
The passage ahead of me was empty. But I knew, now, where I stood, and I knew how the woman had escaped....
This was Lafleur's Shaft!
5
Weymouth nodded, looking very grim.
"We are dealing with a she-devil," he said, "and I suppose she came to look for her servant."
He shone a light upon the upturned face of the man we had found in that chamber. It was a lined, leering face, hideous now by reason of the fact that the man had died from strangulation. Between the brows was a pecu- liar, coloured mark--how produced I could not imagine. But it appeared to have been seared in the yellow flesh, and then enamelled in some way.
"A Burman," Weymouth went on, "and a religious dacoit."
He touched the mark with his finger, then stood still, listening. We all three listened, breathlessly--yet I dare swear no one of us knew what he expected to hear.
I thought as I looked down at those distorted features that if the slanting eyes were opened, this might well be a twin brother of the malignant creature who had followed me to Cairo.
"What does it all mean?" I asked.
"It means that our worst suspicions were correct," Weymouth replied. "If ever I saw one, this is a servant of Dr. Fu Manchu! This carries me back, Greville, to a scene in Sir Lionel's house late in 1913--the death of the Chinaman, Kwee. It may be a coincidence but it's an odd one. Because Kwee met his death when he was engaged on the same duty which I presume brought this yellow demon here. "
"The murder of Barton?"
Weymouth nodded.
"Precisely. It's more than strange, and it's very horrible. "
"Yet surely there's hope in it," I exclaimed excitedly. "This man belonged to the enemy. He has been strangled. It is just possible...."