There was the waiting arabeah, and there on the box was a much cleaner, more self-respecting Arab to drive it than the soiled figure which had left the horses and strayed into the garden. Afterwards they learned that the new man was the "sister's cousin's uncle" of the Hadji's cafe acquaintance. He had been engaged to stroll past in the road, stop, speak, offer the gatekeeper a cigarette, drift into conversation, and be ready to jump onto the box seat the instant Antoun left it. His instructions included furious driving with the three ladies (once they had bundled into the arabeah), to the Temple of Mut.

Rechid Bey had every right, according to his own point of view, to resent the kidnapping of his wife, and to get her back in any way he could, even if blood had to be spilt. But his companions--they who were m.u.f.fled in the cloaks and hoods to save their faces from the sharp wind--had perhaps not the same right or interest. In any case, when they saw that the women had a man, or men, to help them, and that so helped they had pa.s.sed from the privacy of the garden to the publicity of the road, the three fell back. Publicity, it may be, did not please them: or else, thinking to have only women to deal with, they were not armed and did not like the look of the pistol. Rechid, evidently no coward, or past feeling fear in rage at the failure of his counterplot, ran on, wheezing slightly--he was fat for his age--toward the erect Arab and the prostrate negro.

"Beast! devil!" he panted breathlessly, and cried out other words of evil import in both Turkish and Arabic; threatening the silent man of the pistol with death and things even worse. But before he had gone far, the hooded men caught up with him, and surrounding, urged him back. What they said, Anthony could not hear, or what he said in return; but he thought they were proposing some plan which appealed to Rechid's reason, for he showed signs of yielding. There was now no longer anything to detain the protector of the ladies, for by this time, he hoped and believed that their arabeah must be far on its way toward the Temple of Mut, the meeting-place agreed upon. Accordingly, he stepped over the unconscious gatekeeper, who lay with his nose in the gra.s.s, and backed calmly out of the garden. Not far off, an arabeah was crawling along the road, so slowly that one might have thought the driver half asleep. But this supposition would have done him an injustice. Dusk had fallen now, the purple dusk which drops like a curtain just after the pageant of sunset is finished, yet the driver was wide enough awake to pierce the purple with a pair of sharp eyes, and recognize a figure expected. He whipped up his horse, and the dirty Arab running to meet it, in a few seconds the latter was on the box beside the coachman. Then the arabeah turned, and dashed wildly off according to the custom of arabeahs, back in the direction whence it had been crawling.

The two dark-faced men in the vehicle talked rapidly in low voices, speaking the language not only of the country but the _patois_ of Luxor itself. "Your brother pa.s.sed you in his arabeah?"

"Yes, Hadji, he pa.s.sed with the three European ladies you told me had been in secret to visit their friend."

Then Anthony knew that Brigit and Monny had been able already to carry out their plan of wrapping Mabella Hanem in one of their own cloaks.

This was well, and would save gossip, if the occupants of the arabeah were stared at by pa.s.sers by. And at the temple also it would be well, for if possible the Set were to know nothing, now or later, of the adventure. But though Anthony was glad of the news he had got from this Arab ordered to meet him at the gate, he did not settle down comfortably and say to himself: "Thank goodness, the thing is over."

Those men back there in the garden would not so easily have persuaded Rechid Bey to let his wife go unpursued, if they had not offered some alternative plan that could be carried out quickly.

Still, so far so good. Brigit and Monny had "won out," and secured the prize, as Anthony had prophesied that they would do. They were on their way to the temple, where I would be with the comfortable, commonplace crowd from the _Enchantress Isis_, and where the American Consul and his wife would just "happen" also to be wandering. Instead of driving straight there himself, Anthony went with a friend to an obscure, mud-built house in the village. When he came out of that house, his brown-stained face was no longer disfigured with dirt. It was as immaculate, as n.o.ble as the proudest Hadji's face should be, and above it was wound the green turban. Ahmed Antoun Effendi's own dignified, old-fashioned robes of the Egyptian gentleman flowed round his tall figure, when once more he took his place in the waiting arabeah--this time not on the box seat--and drove off at more furious speed than ever, toward the Temple of Mut.

CHAPTER XXIII

BENGAL FIRE

The Temple of Mut I think must always be mysterious even by day. That night it was more than mysterious. It was sinister.

Darkness shut us in among the pillars and the black, lion-faced statues. The least imaginative of my charges seemed to feel the influence of the place. Not an Arab, not even the superior boat dragoman, would come inside with us: because after the sun has set, dethroned Sekhet comes into her own again. Strange stories are whispered by Arabs, of the Temple of Mut, and of the ghostly, golden dahabeah that, once a year, sails slowly by to a faint sound of music, on the Sacred Lake. We had brought candles with us, protected by smoky gla.s.s from the wind that swept down the avenue of broken Sphinxes outside, and hissed like angry cats through the dark courts lined with granite statues of the Cat-G.o.ddess. Yet despite the mystery, or because of it, people seemed curiously happy. The spirit of the past, of Old Egypt, touched them in the shadowy s.p.a.ces of this ruined temple, brushed them with its wings, and whispered half-heard words into their ears. They talked to each other in low tones, as if not to miss the whispers or the soft footfalls of unseen things; and they did not laugh and make jokes, or ask silly questions, according to their irritating custom.

I blessed this mood, for my nerves were jangled (more than ever after the Bronsons un.o.btrusively appeared) waiting for Brigit and Monny to come, wondering if they would come, or what we should do if they didn't; because suddenly in this place of gloom and eloquent silence all the clever little plans Anthony and I had made, in case of accident, seemed futile. How could we have let those two walk alone into a trap? I blamed myself, I blamed Anthony; and sometimes I gave the wrong answers to Mrs. East, who walked with me, trying to keep out of the way of the crowd.

She was anxious to talk of her niece, and to relate how she had been singing my praises to Monny. "You mustn't be discouraged," she said.

"Never mind about the hieroglyphic letter. Oh, no, you needn't worry! I haven't told her it was yours. Better let her think what she thought at first. Did she _tell_ you what she thought? _Please_ answer me, Lord Ernest! I don't mind your knowing--_now_--that I believed it was from Antoun to me. Believing so, did no harm. Why should it, to me, or to him? I soon guessed that there was a mistake somewhere--when he didn't --didn't follow the letter up. I was not offended by the proposal as Monny would have been--oh, not if she'd known it was _yours_, but if she'd supposed Antoun was making love to her. Don't you see--you must have seen, you're so quick and observant--that she's been caught by the romance of him, just as she was afraid she might be by some thrilling prince, when she came to Egypt. She's miserable. She's hating herself.

And you _won't_ save her though I've prepared her mind!"

"So _that's_ what you meant when you hinted that I could spare her humiliation!" I said, half in laughter, half in bitterness, suddenly able to concentrate my mind upon the talk. "Do you think a man would want a girl to take him for such a reason, when she's caring for some one else?"

"But, if it would be impossible for her to marry the some one else?"

"Why should it be impossible?"

"She would think it impossible."

"Would she, if--" I checked myself, but Mrs. East understood instantly.

"If he has a secret," she said, "then none of us has a right to suggest it to her. Every man for himself, Lord Ernest, in _love_! Antoun Effendi has no reason too feel too kindly to Monny. You'll be robbing your friend of _nothing_, if you speak to her. If he's in _love_ with any one, it isn't my niece."

"At least it's not _you_. Perhaps it's Biddy after all!" my thoughts interpolated.

"To care for Monny would be beneath his dignity, considering all that's pa.s.sed. And you can make _her_ happy, as well as yourself, by taking my advice," Mrs. East went on. "Aren't you going to be sensible?"

Just then came a murmur expressing surprise or some other new emotion, from one of the outer courts where the crowd wandered, Cleopatra having lured me--yes, "lured" _is_ the word--into the sanctuary itself.

"Something has happened!" I said. "Let's go back, and see what it is."

"Perhaps Antoun has come!" Mrs. East caught me up eagerly. "He was coming, wasn't he, when he'd finished his business? Or maybe it's only Monny and Brigit."

"_Only_ Monny and Brigit!"

In the hope of seeing Antoun, Cleopatra turned her back upon the dreary sanctuary not unwillingly, even though the burning question was left unanswered. I hurried her through the dark pa.s.sages which lay between us and the courts, lighting our way with a gla.s.sed-in candle; and it was all I could do not to cry out aloud "Thank heaven!" or "Hurrah!" or something else that would have opened people's eyes, when I saw that indeed, Brigit and Monny had arrived. It was Rachel Guest and Willis Bailey who had hailed them from afar, as candlelights flashed across their faces; and suddenly to my eyes the gloomy temple seemed to be brilliantly illuminated. I don't know exactly how I contrived to leave Cleopatra, and get to the newcomers; but I did get to them in less than a minute. Perhaps I was a little rude to Mrs. East. I wasn't thinking of that at the time, however, nor of her.

I separated the two I wanted from the others. Their faces radiated excitement, but I was not sure if it meant success. I was sure only that they had been through an ordeal and were feeling the reaction.

"You're safe!" I said, and shook hands with them feverishly. Then I shook hands all over again.

"Safe, yes," Monny answered. "And Mabel--why don't you ask about her?

Oh, Lord Ernest, we've done it--we've done it--thanks to Antoun Effendi! We should have failed at the last if it hadn't been for him.

Just look over there, at the Bronsons, and see if you can guess who it is they're talking to?"

I looked and saw tall, thin Mr. Bronson, and short, plump Mrs. Bronson trying to form a hollow square around a little figure in a long gray coat of Biddy's, and a hood with a veil I remembered her wearing the day we motored to Heliopolis. It seemed about a hundred years ago. I had conducted so much and so violently since; but I was not too old to remember Biddy's hood. What if Neill Sheridan, poking about alone with a candle, could see through that veil?

"Triumph!" I exclaimed. "You're heroines!" (I didn't know then how true were my own words.) "Was it a great adventure?"

"_Was it_, Biddy?" the girl asked, half shyly of her friend.

"So great that I can't talk about it," Brigit answered, and her eyes implored mine not to ask questions. Also they said that she had things to tell me--not now but by and by. Things for me alone. Biddy's eyes could be wonderful.

"Where's Antoun Effendi?" Monny broke in, when I had taken Brigit's hint, and was beginning to say that we must go and speak to the Bronsons.

"He hasn't come yet," I answered; and then her eyes, too, began to implore.

"Not come yet? But--it's a long time. We found Mr. and Mrs. Bronson outside, hoping for us to arrive, and we talked to them and introduced Mabel, and explained things. They would have liked to go and take her away quickly, but Biddy and I begged them not to. We said it would be better to wait for the rest, and all the crowd to be together in case of--trouble. Oh, we discussed everything, for ages--minutes and minutes. I do think Antoun Effendi ought to be here, unless--"

I caught her up quickly. "Unless?"

"Well, you see, we left him inside Rechid's gate, where he'd just knocked down a big negro, and was keeping back Rechid and _lots_ of other men--anyhow three--with a pistol--not the one he lent me. He told us to go, so we went."

He told them to go--so they went! A change, this, for the Gilded Rose.

She spoke at the moment like an obedient little girl.

"If he told you to go--it was all right, you may be sure," I said encouragingly. But despite my faith in Anthony as a fighting man, I felt--well, somewhat dismayed at the picture called up. "Rechid and anyhow three men!" It was rather a large order. If with a wish I could have sent every member of the Set back to their peaceful homes in England and America, and thus rid myself of them in a second, they would all have found themselves walking in at their respective front doors.

I wished this wish, but having a mere smoking candle in my hand, and not Aladdin's lamp, it didn't work. There they inconveniently remained in the Temple of Mut, looking twice as large as life.

"What if I tell them they've seen everything?" I muttered. "They haven't, but that's a detail. If I could rush 'em all back to the boat --and you with them, of course, and get Mabella Hanem and the Bronsons off safely, I could go look for Anth--for Antoun. Of course we were to wait for him, but I don't like the picture you've painted--"

"Oh, _do_ look for him!" broke in Monny. "Leave us to take care of ourselves. I'm sure we can. There are enough of us. And Mr. Bronson is a _Consul_. Go and get the police."

"I can't leave you," I said. "Antoun would be the last one to forgive me if I did that. But I'll start off the party, now. The arabeahs and donkeys are waiting. Listen to the stentorian voice of the Conductor, announcing--"

I tried to speak gayly; but the announcement, which I opened my mouth to roar through the temple, was never made. There came instead, at that instant, a rival roar from outside. Mine would have been the roar of a sucking dove. This other was a wild bull roar of rage. What it was for, who was making it, and whether it concerned us, we did not know; but it was the sound of many voices, and flowing to us on the wind, driving nearer out of distance, it was startling and caused the heart to miss a beat.