The Slayer of Souls | Page 6

of white evening gloves.
"I go forth," he said more pleasantly.
"I remain here to talk to my seven ancestors and sharpen my knife," remarked Gutchlug.
"When the white world and the yellow world and the brown world and the black world finally fall before the Hassanis," said Sanang with a quick smile, "I shall bring thee to her. Gutchlug--once--before she is veiled, thou shalt behold what is lovelier than Eve."
The other stolidly whetted his knife.
Sanang pulled out a gold cigarette case, lighted a cigarette with an air.
"I go among the Germans," he volunteered amiably. "The huns swam across two oceans, but, like the unclean swine, it is their own throats they cut when they swim! Well, there is only one God. And not very many angels. Erlik is greater. And there are many million devils to do his bidding. Adieu. There is rice and there is koumiss in the frozen closet. When I return you shall have been asleep for hours."
When Sanang left the hotel one of the two young men seated in the hotel lobby got up and strolled out after him.
A few minutes later the other man went to the elevator, ascended to the fourth floor, and entered an apartment next to the one occupied by Sanang.
There was another man there, lying on the lounge and smoking a cigar. Without a word, they both went leisurely about the matter of disrobing for the night.
When the shorter man who had been in the apartment when the other entered, and who was dark and curly-headed, had attired himself in pyjamas, he sat down on one of the twin beds to enjoy his cigar to the bitter end.
"Has Sanang gone out?" he inquired in a low voice.
"Yes. Benton went after him."
The other man nodded. "Cleves," he said, "I guess it looks as though this Norne girl is in it, too."
"What happened?"
"As soon as she arrived, Sanang made straight for her apartment. He remained inside for half an hour. Then he came out in a hurry and went to his own rooms, where that surly servant of his squats all day, shining up his arsenal, and drinking koumiss."
"Did you get their conversation?"
"I've got a record of the gibberish. It requires an interpreter, of course."
"I suppose so. I'll take the records east with me to-morrow, and by the same token I'd better notify New York that I'm leaving."
He went, half-undressed, to the telephone, got the telegraph office, and sent the following message:
"RECKLOW,New York :
"Leaving to-morrow for N.Y. with samples. Retain expert in Oriental fabrics.
"VICTOR CLEVES."
"Report for me, too," said the dark young man, who was still enjoying his cigar on his pillows.
So Cleves send another telegram, directed also to
"RECKLOW,New York :
"Benton and I are watching the market. Chinese importations fluctuate. Recent consignment per Nan-yang Maru will be carefully inspected and details forwarded.
"ALEK SELDEN."
In the next room Gutchlug could hear the voice of Cleves at the telephone, but he merely shrugged his heavy shoulders in contempt. For he had other things to do besides eavesdropping.
Also, for the last hour--in fact, ever since Sanang's departure--something had been happening to him--something that happens to a Hassani only once in a lifetime. And now this unique thing had happened to him--to him, Gutchlug Khan--to him before whose Khiounnou ancestors eight-one thousand nations had bowed the knee.
It had come to his at last, this dread thing, unheralded, totally unexpected, a few minutes after Sanang had departed.
And he suddenly knew he was going to die.
And, when, presently, he comprehended it, he bent his grizzled head and listened seriously. And, after a little silence, he heard his soul bidding him farewell.
So the chatter of white men at a telephone in the next apartment had no longer any significance for him. Whether or not they had been spying on him; whether they were plotting, made no difference to him now.
He tested his knife's edge with his thumb and listened gravely to his soul bidding him farewell.
But, for a Yezidee, there was still a little detail to attend to before his soul departed;--two matters to regulate. One was to select his shroud. The other was to cut the white throat of this young snow-leopardess called Keuke Mongol, the Yezidee temple girl.
And he could steal down to her bedroom and finish that matter in five minutes.
But first he must choose his shroud, as is the custom of the Yezidee.
That office, however, was quickly accomplished in a country where fine white sheets of linen are to be found on every hotel bed.
So, on his way to the door, his naked knife in his right hand, he paused to fumble under the bedcovers and draw out a white linen sheet.
Something hurt his hand like a needle. He moved it, felt the thing squirm under his fingers and pierce his palm again and again. With a shriek, he