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

live; I expect to wake up and find that he was a figure of a particularly evil dream.”

“This incident⁠—the call at his rooms⁠—occurred just before your illness?”

“The thing which he had attempted that night was the last straw, Sime; it broke me down. From the time that he left Oxford, Antony Ferrara has pursued a deliberate course of crime, of crime so cunning, so unusual, and based upon such amazing and unholy knowledge that no breath of suspicion has touched him. Sime, you remember a girl I told you about at Oxford one evening, a girl who came to visit him?”

Sime nodded slowly.

“Well⁠—he killed her! Oh! there is no doubt about it; I saw her body in the hospital.”

“How had he killed her, then?”

“How? Only he and the God who permits him to exist can answer that, Sime. He killed her without coming anywhere near her⁠—and he killed his adoptive father, Sir Michael Ferrara, by the same unholy means!”

Sime watched him, but offered no comment.

“It was hushed up, of course; there is no existing law which could be used against him.”

“Existing law?”

“They are ruled out, Sime, the laws that could have reached him; but he would have been burnt at the stake in the Middle Ages!”

“I see.” Sime drummed his fingers upon the table. “You had those ideas about him at Oxford; and does Dr. Cairn seriously believe the same?”

“He does. So would you⁠—you could not doubt it, Sime, not for a moment, if you had seen what we have seen!” His eyes blazed into a sudden fury, suggestive of his old, robust self. “He tried night after night, by means of the same accursed sorcery, which everyone thought buried in the ruins of Thebes, to kill me! He projected⁠—things⁠—”

“Suggested these⁠—things, to your mind?”

“Something like that. I saw, or thought I saw, and smelt⁠—pah!⁠—I seem to smell them now!⁠—beetles, mummy-beetles, you know, from the skull of a mummy! My rooms were thick with them. It brought me very near to Bedlam, Sime. Oh! it was not merely imaginary. My father and I caught him red-handed.” He glanced across at the other. “You read of the death of Lord Lashmore? It was just after you came out.”

“Yes⁠—heart.”

“It was his heart, yes⁠—but Ferrara was responsible! That was the business which led my father to drive to Ferrara’s rooms with a loaded revolver in his pocket.”

The wind was shaking the windows, and whistling about the building with demoniacal fury as if seeking admission; the band played a popular waltz; and in and out of the open doors came and went groups representative of many ages and many nationalities.

“Ferrara,” began Sime slowly, “was always a detestable man, with his sleek black hair, and ivory face. Those long eyes of his had an expression which always tempted me to hit him. Sir Michael, if what you say is true⁠—and after all, Cairn, it only goes to show how little we know of the nervous system⁠—literally took a viper to his bosom.”

“He did. Antony Ferrara was his adopted son, of course; God knows to what evil brood he really belongs.”

Both were silent for a while. Then:

“Gracious heavens!”

Cairn started to his feet so wildly as almost to upset the table.

“Look, Sime! look!” he cried.

Sime was not the only man in the bar to hear, and to heed his words. Sime, looking in the direction indicated by Cairn’s extended finger, received a vague impression that a grotesque, long-headed figure had appeared momentarily in the doorway opening upon the room where the dancers were; then it was gone again, if it had ever been there, and he was supporting Cairn, who swayed dizzily, and had become ghastly pale. Sime imagined that the heated air had grown suddenly even more heated. Curious eyes were turned upon, his companion, who now sank back into his chair, muttering:

“The Mask, the Mask!”

“I think I saw the chap who seems to worry you so much,” said Sime soothingly. “Wait here; I will tell the waiter to bring you a dose of brandy; and whatever you do, don’t get excited.”

He made for the door, pausing and giving an order to a waiter on his way, and pushed into the crowd outside. It was long past midnight, and the gaiety, which had been resumed, seemed of a forced and feverish sort. Some of the visitors were leaving, and a breath of hot wind swept in from the open doors.

A pretty girl wearing a yashmak, who, with two similarly attired companions, was making her way to the entrance, attracted his attention; she seemed to be on the point of swooning. He recognised the trio for the same that had pelted Cairn and himself with confetti earlier in the evening.

“The sudden heat has affected your friend,” he said, stepping up to them. “My name is Dr. Sime; may I offer you my assistance?”

The offer was accepted, and with the three he passed out on to the terrace, where the dust grated beneath the tread, and helped the fainting girl into an arabîyeh. The night was thunderously black, the heat almost insufferable, and the tall palms in front of the hotel bowed before the might of the scorching wind.

As the vehicle drove off, Sime stood for a moment looking after it. His face was very grave, for there was a look in the bright eyes of the girl in the yashmak which, professionally, he did not like. Turning up the steps, he learnt from the manager that several visitors had succumbed to the heat. There was something furtive in the manner of his informant’s glance, and Sime looked at him significantly.

“Khamsin brings clouds of septic dust with it,” he said. “Let us hope that these attacks are due to nothing more than the unexpected rise in the temperature.”

An air of uneasiness prevailed now throughout the hotel. The wind had considerably abated, and crowds were leaving, pouring from the steps into the deserted street, a dreamlike company.

Colonel Royland took Sime aside, as the latter was making his way back to