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Voltaire picked up something from the ground and looked at it. "Kaffar's," he said. "Look, Mr. Blake; do you recognize this?" I looked and saw a finely-worked neckcloth, on which was written in Arabic characters the words "Aba Wady Kaffar." It had every appearance of being soiled by severe wrenching, and on it were spots of blood.
Man, where is he now?" "How can I say?" said the Italian. Kaffar held down his head for a minute, and then said hastily, "And his message?" "Something to your advantage, sir." "My advantage? Can it be he? Did he give his name?" "Herod Voltaire!" "Voltaire! Never! He dare not come near me; I'm his master for many reasons he dare not come! But "
Now he would be prepared for everything I could do; he would check my every move. If Kaffar were alive, he would have a thousand means of keeping him out of my way; if dead well, then, I did not care much what happened.
"You are not to take one step in trying to prove that Kaffar is alive." "Ah!" I cried; "you fear I might produce him. Then I have not killed him, even through you. Thank God! thank God!" "Stop your pious exclamations," he said. "No, you are wrong. You did kill Kaffar, and he lies at the bottom of yonder ghostly pool; so that is not the reason.
He checked himself, as if he were telling the Italian too much. The host then left the room, while Kaffar went on with his supper. I opened the door noiselessly and went into the room, and said distinctly, "Good evening, Mr. Kaffar." He looked up and saw me. Never, I think, did I see so much terror, astonishment, mingled with hate, expressed on a human face before. He made a leap for the door.
To put it at the outside, it was only a forty-eight hours' journey, allowing time for a sleep on the way. Thus four days would suffice for travelling, and I should have more than three days in which to find Kaffar. It was true Turin was a large town, but in three days I was sure I could find him. In that time I thought I could hunt every lodging-house and hotel in the city.
"I should like," said Miss Staggles, "to hear what Mr. Blake, the Thomas of the party, has to say to it." There was an ugly leer in the old woman's eye as she spoke, and the thought struck me that Voltaire had been making friends with her. "Yes," said Voltaire; "I am sure we should all like to know whether Mr. Blake is convinced." "I am convinced that Mr. Kaffar has a good memory," I said.
She made the ghost very real to many, and the calamity which she was supposed to foretell seemed certain to come to pass. I looked at Gertrude Forrest and Ethel Gray, who, wrapped in their dressing-gowns, stood side by side, and I saw that both of them were terribly moved. Voltaire and Kaffar were both there, but they uttered no word. They, too, seemed to believe in the reality of the apparition.
I found that Kaffar could not speak Italian. He spoke French enough to make himself understood, and, as his host was proficient in that language, French was the tongue in which they conversed. "Has any one been asking for me?" asked Kaffar. "Yes, sir." "Who?" "A gentleman from England." "From England! What kind of a man?" "A giant, with brown hair." "A giant, with brown hair!
The first question that will be asked will be why you have refrained from telling so long, for he who shelters a criminal by silence is regarded as an aider and an abettor of that criminal. Then, man, this case will be sifted to the bottom. That pond will be pumped dry, and every outlet examined. Besides, what about the booking-clerk that issued a ticket to Kaffar two hours after you and Mr.
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