The Classic Mystery Collection - Arthur Conan Doyle [5324]
So dim the light remained that it was impossible to discern the details with anything like clearness, but that the clean-shaven face of the man with those wonderful eyes was strikingly and intellectually handsome there could be no doubt.
This was Kazmah, "the dream reader," and although Mrs. Irvin had seen him before, his statuesque repose and the weirdness of his unfaltering gaze thrilled her uncannily.
Kazmah slightly raised his hand in greeting: the big ring glittered in the subdued light.
"Tell me your dream," came a curious mocking voice; "and I will read its portent."
Such was the set formula with which Kazmah opened all interviews. He spoke with a slight and not unmusical accent. He lowered his hand again. The gaze of those brilliant eyes remained fixed upon the woman's face. Moistening her lips, Mrs. Irvin spoke.
"Dreams! What I have to say does not belong to dreams, but to reality!" She laughed unmirthfully. "You know well enough why I am here."
She paused.
"Why are you here?"
"You know! You know!" Suddenly into her voice had come the unmistakable note of hysteria. "Your theatrical tricks do not impress me. I know what you are! A spy--an eavesdropper who watches--watches, and listens! But you may go 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. . . .
CHAPTER IV
THE CLOSED DOOR
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,