“I think someone has been watching, Shan; I am going to drive you back to Shepheard’s now.”
And as she drove, I watched the delicate profile of the driver. She was very beautiful, I thought. How wonderful to have won the love of such a woman. She linked her arms about me and crushed her lips against mine, her long, narrow eyes closed.
In the complete surrender of that embrace I experienced a mad triumph, in which Rima, Nayland Smith, the chief, all, were forgotten.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVENTH
IVORY
HANDS
I closed my eyes again, pressing my face against that satin pillow. I felt I could have stayed there forever.
“You know, Shan,” Fah Lo Suee’s voice went on—that silvery voice in which I seemed to hear the note of a bell—”you have often hated me and you will hate me again.”
“I could never hate you,” I said drowsily.
“I have tricked you many times; for, although I love you, Shan, you are really not very clever.”
“Cleverer men than I would give all for your kisses,” I whispered.
“That is true,” she replied, without vanity; for with much of his powerful brain she had also inherited from the Chinese doctor a philosophy by virtue of which she judged herself equally with others. “But I find hatred hard to accept.”
I kept my eyes obstinately closed. Some vague idea was stirring in my brain that when I opened them that act would herald the end of this delicious interlude.
She was so slender—so exquisite—her personality enveloped me like a perfume.
“I have given you back the memory of forgotten hours, Shan. There is no disloyalty in what I have done. Your memories can only tell you again what you know already: that my father is the greatest genius the world has ever known. The old house at Gizeh is deserted again, even if you could find it. Your other memories are of me.”
I clutched her tightly.
“Why should you leave me?”
She clung to me for a moment, and I could hear her heart beating; then:
“Because the false is valueless to me, and the true I can never have.”
The words were so strangely spoken, in so strange a voice, that at last I opened my eyes again...and, astounded, broke free from Fah Lo Suee’s clinging arms and stared about me.
I was in the Museum Room in Bruton Street!
A silk dressing gown I had over my pyjamas; a pair of Arab slippers were on my feet. Fah Lo Suee, in a pale green frock which did full justice to her perfect back and shoulders, was lying among the cushions beside me, her fur coat on the floor near by.
She was watching me under half-lowered lashes—doubting me, it would seem. There was more of appeal than command in those emerald green, long, wonderful eyes. Staring about the room, I saw everything was as I had left it; and:
“Well?” Fah Lo Suee murmured, continuing to watch me.
I turned and looked down at her where she lay.
And, as her glance met mine, I was claimedrsubmerged, swept away by such a wave of desire for this woman as I had never known for anyone in the whole of my life. I dropped to the floor, clasping her knees.
“You cannot—you must not—you dare not go!”
Her lips rippled in a smile—those perfect lips which I realised I adored; and then very wistfully:
“If only that were true!” she murmured.
“But it is!” I knelt upon the settee, grasping her fiercely, and looking into those eyes which beckoned to me—beckoned to me....“Why do you say that? How can you doubt it?”
But she continued to smile.
And then, as I stooped to kiss her, she thrust her hands, slender, exquisite ivory hands against me, and pushed me back. I would have resisted—
“Shan!” she said.
And although the word was spoken as an appeal, yet it was a command; and a command which I obeyed. Yes, she was right. There was some reason—some reason, which escaped me—why we must part. I clutched my head feverishly, thinking—thinking. What could that reason by?
“I am going, dear. You mustn’t come down to the door—I know my way.”
But I sprang up. She had stooped and was taking up her cloak. Mechanically, I slipped it about her shoulders. She leaned back as I did so and submitted to my frenzied kisses. At last, releasing herself, and pulling the cloak about her slim body: “Good-bye, Shan dear,” she said, brokenly, but with a determination which I knew I had no power to weaken. “Please go back to bed—and go to sleep.”
Hot tears burned behind my eyes. I felt that life had nothing left for me. But—I obeyed.
Passing out onto the landing where suits of Saracen armour stood on guard, I watched Fah Lo Suee descend the broad staircase. A light burned in the lobby, as was customary, and, reaching the foot of the stairs, she turned.
With one slender, unforgettable, indolent hand, she beckoned to me imperiously.
I obeyed her order—I moved towards the staircase leading to the floor above. I had begun to go up when I heard the street door close....
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHTH
I REALLY AWAKEN
“Nine o’clock, sir. Are you ready for your tea?”
I opened my eyes and stared into the face of Betts. Upon a salver he carried the morning papers and a pile of correspondence. Placing them upon the table, he crossed and drew back the curtains before the windows.
“A beautiful morning again, sir,” he went on; I hope this will continue until the happy day.”
I sat up.
“Shall I bring your tea, sir?”
“Yes, please do.”
As that venerable old scoundrel, whose job was one of those which every butler is looking for, went out of the room, I stared about me in search of my dressing gown.
There it was, thrown over the back of an armchair—upon which also I saw my dress clothes. I jumped out of bed, put on the old Arab slippers, and then the dressing gown.
Never in my life had I been visited by so singular, so vivid a dream...a dream? Where had dreaming left off? I must make notes while the facts were clear in my memory.
I went out and down to the library; grabbed a writing pad and a pencil. I was on the point of returning upstairs when that query, “Where had dreaming left oft?” presented itself in a new aspect.
Dropping pad and pencil, I hurried along the gallery and into the Museum Room....
I could not forget that Petrie, that man of scientific mind, had once endeavoured to shoot his oldest friend, Sir Denis, under some damnable influence controlled by Dr. Fu Manchu. And had I not myself seen Rima, actuated by the same unholy power, obeying the deathly orders of Fah Lo Suee?
The Museum Room looked exactly as I had left it—except that Betts, or one of the maids, had cleaned the ash tray in which I remembered having placed the stub of a cigarette. The table prepared for my eleven o’clock appointment was in order. Everything was in order.
And—that which above all engaged my particular attention—the small case containing the relics ofMokanna showed no signs of disturbance. There were the mask, the plates, and the sword.
I returned to the library for pencil and writing pad. If I had dreamed, it had been a clairvoyant dream, vivid as an actual experience. It had given me certain knowledge which might prove invaluable to Nayland Smith.
Perhaps analysis of that piece of slender twine which I knew was in Sir Denis’s possession would show it to be indeed composed of spider web. I wondered if the mystery of the forcing of the safe on the Indramatra had been solved for me. And I wondered if the liquid smelling strongly of mimosa which still remained in that spray found upon the dead Negro in Ispahan would respond to any test known to science?