Brood of the Witch-Queen Sax Rohmer (read 50 shades of grey TXT) 📖

now; with Lady Lashmore where she lies. I have phoned for nurses.”

“Ah!” said Dr. Cairn; “I shall come back, Groves, but I have a small matter to attend to.”

He drew his son from the room. On the stair:

“You understand?” he asked. “The spirit of Mirza came to him again, clothed in his wife’s body. Lord Lashmore felt the teeth at his throat, awoke instantly and struck out. As he did so, he turned the torch upon her, and recognised⁠—his wife! His heart completed the tragedy, and so⁠—to the laughter of the sorceress⁠—passed the last of the house of Dhoon.”

The cab was waiting. Dr. Cairn gave an address in Piccadilly, and the two entered. As the cab moved off, the doctor took a revolver from his pocket, with some loose cartridges, charged the five chambers, and quietly replaced the weapon in his pocket again.

One of the big doors of the block of chambers was found to be ajar, and a porter proved to be yet in attendance.

“Mr. Ferrara?” began Dr. Cairn.

“You are five minutes too late, sir,” said the man. “He left by motor at ten past twelve. He’s gone abroad, sir.”

XI Cairo

The exact manner in which mental stress will effect a man’s physical health is often difficult to predict. Robert Cairn was in the pink of condition at the time that he left Oxford to take up his London appointment; but the tremendous nervous strain wrought upon him by this series of events wholly outside the radius of normal things had broken him up physically, where it might have left unscathed a more highly strung, though less physically vigorous man.

Those who have passed through a nerve storm such as this which had laid him low will know that convalescence seems like a welcome awakening from a dreadful dream. It was indeed in a state between awaking and dreaming that Robert Cairn took counsel with his father⁠—the latter more pale than was his wont and somewhat anxious-eyed⁠—and determined upon an Egyptian rest-cure.

“I have made it all right at the office, Rob,” said Dr. Cairn. “In three weeks or so you will receive instructions at Cairo to write up a series of local articles. Until then, my boy, complete rest and⁠—don’t worry; above all, don’t worry. You and I have passed through a saturnalia of horror, and you, less inured to horrors than I, have gone down. I don’t wonder.”

“Where is Antony Ferrara?”

Dr. Cairn shook his head and his eyes gleamed with a sudden anger. “For God’s sake don’t mention his name!” he said. “That topic is taboo, Rob. I may tell you, however, that he has left England.”

In this unreal frame of mind, then, and as one but partly belonging to the world of things actual, Cairn found himself an invalid, who but yesterday had been a hale man; found himself shipped for Port Said; found himself entrained for Cairo; and with an awakening to the realities of life, an emerging from an ill-dream to lively interest in the novelties of Egypt, found himself following the red-jerseyed Shepheard’s porter along the corridor of the train and out on to the platform.

A short drive through those singular streets where East meets West and mingles, in the sudden, violet dusk of Lower Egypt, and he was amid the bustle of the popular hotel.

Sime was there, whom he had last seen at Oxford, Sime the phlegmatic. He apologised for not meeting the train, but explained that his duties had rendered it impossible. Sime was attached temporarily to an archaeological expedition as medical man, and his athletic and somewhat bovine appearance contrasted oddly with the unhealthy gauntness of Cairn.

“I only got in from Wasta ten minutes ago, Cairn. You must come out to the camp when I return; the desert air will put you on your feet again in no time.”

Sime was unemotional, but there was concern in his voice and in his glance, for the change in Cairn was very startling. Although he knew something, if but very little, of certain happenings in London⁠—gruesome happenings centering around the man called Antony Ferrara⁠—he avoided any reference to them at the moment.

Seated upon the terrace, Robert Cairn studied the busy life in the street below with all the interest of a new arrival in the Capital of the Near East. More than ever, now, his illness and the things which had led up to it seemed to belong to a remote dream existence. Through the railings at his feet a hawker was thrusting fly-whisks, and imploring him in complicated English to purchase one. Vendors of beads, of fictitious “antiques,” of sweetmeats, of whatnot; fortune-tellers⁠—and all that chattering horde which some obscure process of gravitation seems to hurl against the terrace of Shepheard’s, buzzed about him. Carriages and motor cars, camels and donkeys mingled, in the Shâria Kâmel Pasha. Voices American, voices Anglo-Saxon, guttural German tones, and softly murmured Arabic merged into one indescribable chord of sound; but to Robert Cairn it was all unspeakably restful. He was quite contented to sit there sipping his whisky and soda, and smoking his pipe. Sheer idleness was good for him and exactly what he wanted, and idling amid that unique throng is idleness de luxe.

Sime watched him covertly, and saw that his face had acquired lines⁠—lines which told of the fires through which he had passed. Something, it was evident⁠—something horrible⁠—had seared his mind. Considering the many indications of tremendous nervous disaster in Cairn, Sime wondered how near his companion had come to insanity, and concluded that he had stood upon the frontiers of that grim land of phantoms, and had only been plucked back in the eleventh hour.

Cairn glanced around with a smile, from the group of hawkers who solicited his attention upon the pavement below.

“This is a delightful scene,” he said. “I could sit here for hours; but considering that it’s some time after sunset it remains unusually hot, doesn’t it?”

“Rather!” replied Sime. “They are expecting khamsin⁠—the hot wind, you know. I was up the