Dope | Page 8

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, fair moustache only added insignificance. It was crowned by a
wide-brimmed bowler hat which the man wore pressed down upon his ears like a Jew
pedlar.
"Why!" cried Gray, "this is the second time tonight you have jostled me!"
He thought he had recognized the man for the same who had been following himself, Mrs.
Irvin and Sir Lucien Pyne along old Bond Street.
A smile, intended to be propitiatory, appeared upon the pale face.
"No, sir, excuse me, sir--"
"Don't deny it!" said Gray angrily. "If I had the time I should give you in charge as a
suspicious loiterer."
Calling to the cabman to wait, he ran up the stairs to the second floor landing. Before the
painted door bearing the name of Kazmah he halted, and as the door did not open,
stamped impatiently, but with no better result.
At that, since there was neither bell nor knocker, he raised his fist and banged loudly.
No one responded to the summons.
"Hi, there!" he shouted. "Open the door! Pyne! Rita!"
Again he banged--and yet again. Then he paused, listening, his ear pressed to the panel.
He could detect no sound of movement within. Fists clenched, he stood staring at the
closed door, and his fresh color slowly deserted him and left him pale.
"Damn him!" he muttered savagely. "Damn him! he has fooled me!"