The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [64]
The detective instinct, when in full bloom, ruthlessly suppresses softer feelings. I am ashamed to admit that my next speech was dictated, not by sympathy, but by guile. I was determined to break through his guard, to trick him into an admission.
“Your situation is difficult,” I said. “But I know Mary will stand by you, if she loves you. Any true woman would.”
“Would she? Would you?” Before I could reply he turned and caught me by the shoulders.
I confess that a slight qualm dampened my detective ardor. The darkness was now complete, and the tall form of Milverton hovered over me like a creature of night, no longer entirely human. I felt his hot breath on my face and felt his fingers pressing painfully into my flesh. It occurred to me that possibly I might have been guilty of a slight error in judgment.
Before I was stampeded into committing some foolish act, such as calling for help or striking Mr. Milverton with my parasol, a silvery light illumined the darkness as the moon, almost at the full, rose over the cliffs. I had forgotten that this phenomenon must inevitably occur; for almost never are there cloudy skies in Luxor. So pure, so limpid is the lunar illumination in that southern clime that it is possible to read a book by its rays; but who would dream of turning his eyes to a sterile page of print when a magical landscape of shadow and silver lies before him? Moonlight in ancient Thebes! How often and how understandably has this theme formed the subject of literary masterpieces!
My feeble pen, moved by a mind more susceptible to cold reason than to poetry (though not untouched by its influence, never think that)… my feeble pen, as I say, will not attempt to rival the effusions of more gifted writers. More to the point, the light enabled me to see Mr. Milverton’s face which, in his extremity, he had pressed close to mine. I saw, with considerable relief, that his handsome features bore a look of anxiety and distress, with no trace of the mania I had feared to see.
The same light allowed him to see my face, which must have betrayed discomfort. Immediately he loosened his grasp.
“Forgive me. I—I am not myself, Mrs. Emerson, indeed I am not. I think I have been half mad these past weeks. I can endure it no longer. I must speak. May I confide in you? May I trust you?”
“You may!” I cried.
The young man took a deep breath and drew himself up to his full height, his broad shoulders squared. His lips parted.
At that precise moment a long-drawn-out shriek echoed across the wilderness of tumbled stone. For a moment I thought Mr. Milverton was howling like a werewolf. But he was as startled as I; and almost at once I realized that the peculiar acoustical qualities of the area had made a sound whose origin was some distance away sound mysteriously close at hand. The moon was fully up by then, and as I scanned the terrain, seeking the source of the eerie cry, I beheld an alarming sight.
Bounding across the plateau came Emerson, leaping boulders and soaring over crevasses. His speeding form was followed by a silvery cloud of dust, and his unearthly cries, combined with this ectoplasmic accompaniment, would have struck terror into a superstitious heart. He was moving in our direction, but at an angle to the path. Waving my parasol, I immediately set off on a course that would cross his.
I was able to intercept him, for I had calculated the intersecting angles accurately. Knowing him well, I did not attempt to stop him by touching him or grasping him lightly; instead