Tales of Chinatown by Sax Rohmer (classic books for 12 year olds TXT) 📖

for us actually to see him, we are convinced that he is the person we seek.”

“I think you are mistaken,” said Zahara coolly. “But what do you want him for?”

As she uttered the words she realized that even the memory of Grantham was sufficient to cause her to betray herself. She had betrayed her interest to the man himself, and now she had betrayed it to this dark-faced stranger whose manner was so mysterious. The Spaniard recognized the fact, and, unlike Grantham, acted upon it promptly.

“He has taken away the wife of another, Senorita,” he said simply, and watched her as he spoke the lie.

She listened in silence, wide-eyed. Her lower lip twitched, and she bit it fiercely.

“He went first to Port Said and then came to London with this woman,” continued the Spaniard remorselessly. “We come from her husband to ask her to return. Yes, he will forgive her—or he offers her freedom.”

Rapidly but comprehensively the speaker's bold glance travelled over Zahara, from her golden head to her tiny embroidered shoes.

“If you can help us in this matter it will be worth fifty English pounds to you,” he concluded.

Zahara was breathing rapidly. The fatal hatred which she had sought to stifle gained a new vitality. Another woman—another woman actually here in London! So there was someone upon whom he did not look in that half-amused and half-compassionate manner. How she hated him! How she hated the woman to whom he had but a moment ago returned!

“Then he will marry this other one?” she said suddenly.

“Oh, no. Already he neglects her. We think she will go back.”

Zahara experienced a swift change of sentiment. She seemed to be compounded of two separate persons, one of whom laughed cruelly at the folly of the other.

“What is the name of this man you think your friend has recognized?” she asked.

The big stick was rapping furiously during this colloquy.

“We are both sure, Senorita. His name is Major Spalding.”

That Spalding and Grantham were neighbouring towns in Lincolnshire Zahara did not know, but:

“No one of that name comes here,” she replied.

“The one you heard and—who has gone—is not called by that name.” She spoke with forced calm. It was Grantham they sought! “But what happens if I show you this one who is not called Spalding?”

“No matter! Point him out to me,” answered the Spaniard eagerly—and his dark eyes seemed to be on fire—“point him out to me and fifty pounds of English money is yours!”

“Let me see.”

He drew out a wallet and held up a number of notes.

“Fifty,” he said, in a subdued voice, “when you point him out.”

For a long moment Zahara hesitated, then:

“Sixty,” she corrected him—“now! Then I will do it to-night—if you tell what happens.”

Exhibiting a sort of eager impatience the man displayed a bunch of official-looking documents.

“I give him these,” he explained, “and my work is done.”

“H'm,” said Zahara. “He must not know that it is I who have shown him to you. To-night he will be here at nine o'clock, and I shall dance. You understand?”

“Then,” said the Spaniard eagerly, “this is what you will do.”

And speaking close to her ear he rapidly outlined a plan; but presently she interrupted him.

“Pooh! It is Spanish, the rose. I dance the dances of Egypt.”

“But to-night,” he persisted, “it will not matter.”

Awhile longer they talked, the rapping of the stick upon the tiled floor growing ever faster and faster. But finally:

“I will tell Hassan that you are to be admitted,” said Zahara, and she held out her hand for the notes.

When, presently, the visitors departed, she learned that the smaller man was blind; for his companion led him out of the room and out of the house. She stood awhile listening to the tap, tap, tap of the heavy stick receding along the street. What she did not hear, and could not have understood had she heard, since it was uttered in Spanish, was the cry of exultant hatred which came from the lips of the taller man:

“At last, Miguel! at last! Though blind, you have found him! You have not failed. I shall not fail!”

Zahara peeped through the carved screen at the assembled company. They were smoking and drinking and seemed to be in high good humour. Safiyeh had danced and they had applauded the performance, but had complained to M. Agapoulos that they had seen scores of such dances and dancers. Safiyeh, who had very little English, had not understood this, and because presently she was to play upon the a'ood while Zahara danced the Dance of the Veils, Zahara had avoided informing her of the verdict of the company.

Now as she peeped through the lattice in the screen she could see the Greek haggling with Grantham and a tall gray-haired man whom she supposed to be Sir Horace Tipton. They were debating the additional fees to be paid if Zahara, the Star of Egypt, was to present the secret and wonderful dance of which all men had heard but which only a true daughter of the ancient tribe of the Ghawazi could perform.

Sometimes Zahara was proud of her descent from a dancing-girl of Kenneh. This was always at night, when a sort of barbaric excitement possessed her which came from the blood of her mother. Then, a new light entered her eyes and they seemed to grow long and languid and dark, so that no one would have suspected that in daylight they were blue.

A wild pagan abandon claimed her, and she seemed to hear the wailing of reed instruments and the throb of the ancient drums which were played of old before the kings of Egypt. Safiyeh was not a true dancing girl, and because she knew none of those fine frenzies, she danced without inspiration, like a brown puppet moved by strings. But she could play upon an a'ood much better than Zahara, and therefore must not be upset until she had played for the Dance of the Veils.

Seeing that the bargain was all but concluded, Zahara stole back to her room. Her lightly clad body gleamed like that of some statue become animate.

Her cheeks flushed as she took up the veils, of which she alone knew the symbolic meaning; the white veil, the purple veil: each had its story to tell her; and the veil of burning scarlet. In a corner of the big room on a divan near the door she had seen the Spaniard, a handsome, swarthy figure in his well-fitting dress clothes, and now, opening a drawer, she glanced at the little pile of notes which represented