The Quest of the Sacred Slipper | Page 3

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The Quest of the Sacred Slipper
by Sax Rohmer

CONTENTS
I. THE PHANTOM SCIMITAR.
II. THE GIRL WITH THE VIOLET EYES
III. "HASSAN OF ALEPPO" .
IV. THE OBLONG BOX
V. THE OCCUPANT OF THE BOX
VI. THE RING OF THE PROPHET.
VII. FIRST ATTEMPT ON THE SAFE
VIII. THE VIOLET EYES AGAIN
IX. SECOND ATTEMPT ON THE SAFE
X. AT THE BRITISH ANTIQUARIAN MUSEUM
XI. THE HOLE IN THE BLIND
XII. THE HASHISHIN WATCH
XIII. THE WHITE BEAM
XIV. A SCREAM IN THE NIGHT
XV. A SHRIVELLED HAND
XVI. THE DWARF
XVII. THE WOMAN WITH THE BASKET
XVIII. WHAT CAME THROUGH THE WINDOW XIX. A RAPPING AT MIDNIGHT XX. THE GOLDEN PAVILION XXI. THE BLACK TUBE XXII. THE LIGHT OF EL-MEDINEH
XXIII. THE THREE MESSAGES XXIV. I KEEP THE APPOINTMENT XXV. THE WATCHER IN BANK CHAMBERS
XXVI. THE STRONG-ROOM XXVII. THE SLIPPER
XXVIII. CARNETA
XXIX. WE MEET MR. ISAACS
XXX. AT THE GATE HOUSE
XXXI. THE POOL OF DEATH
XXXII. SIX PATCHES XXXIII. HOW WE WERE REENFORCED
XXXIV. MY LAST MEETING WITH HASSAN OF ALEPPO

THE QUEST OF THE SACRED SLIPPER
CHAPTER I
THE PHANTOM SCIMITAR
I was not the only passenger aboard the S.S. Mandalay who perceived the disturbance and wondered what it might portend and from whence proceed. A goodly number of passengers were joining the ship at Port Said. I was lounging against the rail, pipe in mouth, lazily wondering, with a large vagueness.
What a heterogeneous rabble it was! - a brightly coloured rabble, but the colours all were dirty, like the town and the canal. Only the sky was clean; the sky and the hard, merciless sunlight which spared nothing of the uncleanness, and defied one even to think of the term dear to tourists, "picturesque." I was in that kind of mood. All the natives appeared to be pockmarked; all the Europeans greasy with perspiration.
But what was the stir about?
I turned to the dark, bespectacled young man who leaned upon the rail beside me. From the first I had taken to Mr. Ahmad Ahmadeen.
"There is some kind of undercurrent of excitement among the natives," I said, "a sort of subdued Greek chorus is audible. What's it all about?"
Mr. Ahmadeen smiled. After a gaunt fashion, he was a handsome man and had a pleasant smile.
"Probably," he replied, "some local celebrity is joining the ship."
I stared at him curiously.
"Any idea who he is?" (The soul of the copyhunter is a restless soul.)
A group of men dressed in semi-European fashion - that is, in European fashion save for their turbans, which were green - passed close to us along the deck.
Ahmadeen appeared not to have heard the question.
The disturbance, which could only be defined as a subdued uproar, but could be traced to no particular individual or group, grew momentarily louder - and died away. It was only when it had completely ceased that one realized how pronounced it had been - how altogether peculiar, secret; like that incomprehensible murmuring in a bazaar when, unknown to the insular visitor, a reputed saint is present.
Then it happened; the inexplicable incident which, though I knew it not, heralded the coming of strange things, and the dawn of a new power; which should set up its secret standards in England, which should flood Europe and the civilized world with wonder.
A shrill scream marked the overture - a scream of fear and of pain, which dropped to a groan,