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Updated: June 25, 2025
"'I can afford to wait, he said, 'for I shall get what I want: I always do. But you have chosen to set yourself against me and you will bitterly repent it!" As though the recollection proved too much for her, Nur-el-Din broke off her narrative and covered her face with her hands. "And do you think that Mortimer did this murder?" asked Desmond gently. Wearily the girl raised her head.
Nur-el-Din cast a frightened glance over her shoulder at the floor beside the table where Rass lay. On seeing the white pall that hid him from view, she became somewhat reassured. She rose unsteadily to her feet and stood facing Matthews.
He resolved to try and find out on what it was based. "I am only too happy to be of assistance to you," he said, "especially in view of the letter of introduction you sent me, but I must tell you plainly that what you ask is impossible." "Impossible?" repeated Nur-el-Din, stamping her feet. "Impossible? Do you know what you are saying?" "Perfectly," replied Desmond negligently.
"Who is it, Martha?" he said, mastering his agitation. "Mr. Mortimer!" mumbled the old woman in her tired voice, "at least that's what he said his name was. The gentleman hadn't got a card!" Nur-el-Din sprang up from her chair so vehemently that she upset her coffee. "Don't let him come in!" she cried in French. "Did you say I was in?"
He's wasted all this time trying to pick it up again instead of reporting to me at once." "Zut!" cried the Frenchman. The sight of Nur-el-Din filled Desmond with alarm. For a moment his mind was overshadowed by the dread of detection. He had forgotten all about Mr. Crook's handiwork in the train, and his immediate fear was that the dancer would awake and recognize him.
The drawing-room was a bare, inhospitable room, studded here and there with uncomfortable looking early Victorian armchairs swathed in dust-proof cloths. A fire was making an unsuccessful attempt to burn in the open grate. Nur-el-Din turned as he entered the room. She was wearing a gray cloth tailor-made with a white silk, blouse and a short skirt showing a pair of very natty brown boots.
Well, you've killed two of my people and you've arrested the ringleader." "Meaning Behrend?" asked Desmond. "Behrend be hanged! I mean Nur-el-Din!" "Nur-el-Din was not the ringleader," said Desmond, "as well you know, Strangwise!" "Your employers evidently don't share your views, Desmond," he replied, "all the documents were found on Nur-el-Din!" "Bah!" retorted Desmond, "and what of it?
"Ever since Nur-el-Din told me you were of the Crown Prince's personal service," he said, "I have been devoured with curiosity to know what you were doing before you came to England. Were you at Metz with his Imperial Highness? Did you see the assault at Verdun? Were you present at the capture of the Fort of Douaumont?" Mortimer shook his head, laughing, and held up a deprecating hand.
Desmond rubbed his chin. "I say, you aren't going to implicate old Strangwise, too, are you?" he asked. Barbara did not reflect his smile. "He seems to know Nur-el-Din pretty well," she said, "and I'll tell you something else, that woman's afraid of your friend, the Captain!" "What do you mean?" asked Desmond.
My dear young lady, murder is not done for a silver box!" "No, no," Nur-el-Din repeated, "you don't understand! You don't know what that box contained!" Then she relapsed into silence, plucking idly at the shred of cambric she held between her fingers. Already dusk was falling and the room was full of shadows.
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