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

had the apartment to himself. He remembered that his father had mentioned on one occasion that there was a ring in this room which had belonged to the Witch-Queen. Robert Cairn wondered in which of the cases it was exhibited, and by what means he should be enabled to recognise it.

Bending over a case containing scarabs and other amulets, many set in rings, he began to read the inscriptions upon the little tickets placed beneath some of them; but none answered to the description, neither the ticketed nor the unticketed. A second case he examined with like results. But on passing to a third, in an angle near the door, his gaze immediately lighted upon a gold ring set with a strange green stone, engraved in a peculiar way. It bore no ticket, yet as Robert Cairn eagerly bent over it, he knew, beyond the possibility of doubt, that this was the ring of the Witch-Queen.

Where had he seen it, or its duplicate?

With his eyes fixed upon the gleaming stone, he sought to remember. That he had seen this ring before, or one exactly like it, he knew, but strangely enough he was unable to determine where and upon what occasion. So, his hands resting upon the case, he leant, peering down at the singular gem. And as he stood thus, frowning in the effort of recollection, a dull white hand, having long tapered fingers, glided across the glass until it rested directly beneath his eyes. Upon one of the slim fingers was an exact replica of the ring in the case!

Robert Cairn leapt back with a stifled exclamation.

Antony Ferrara stood before him!

“The Museum ring is a copy, dear Cairn,” came the huskily musical, hateful voice; “the one upon my finger is the real one.”

Cairn realised in his own person, the literal meaning of the overworked phrase, “frozen with amazement.” Before him stood the most dangerous man in Europe; a man who had done murder and worse; a man only in name, a demon in nature. His long black eyes half-closed, his perfectly chiselled ivory face expressionless, and his blood-red lips parted in a mirthless smile, Antony Ferrara watched Cairn⁠—Cairn whom he had sought to murder by means of hellish art.

Despite the heat of the day, he wore a heavy overcoat, lined with white fox fur. In his right hand⁠—for his left still rested upon the case⁠—he held a soft hat. With an easy nonchalance, he stood regarding the man who had sworn to kill him, and the latter made no move, uttered no word. Stark amazement held him inert.

“I knew that you were in the Museum, Cairn,” Ferrara continued, still having his basilisk eyes fixed upon the other from beneath the drooping lids, “and I called to you to join me here.”

Still Cairn did not move, did not speak.

“You have acted very harshly towards me in the past, dear Cairn; but because my philosophy consists in an admirable blending of that practised in Sybaris with that advocated by the excellent Zeno; because whilst I am prepared to make my home in a Diogenes’ tub, I, nevertheless, can enjoy the fragrance of a rose, the flavour of a peach⁠—”

The husky voice seemed to be hypnotising Cairn; it was a siren’s voice, thralling him.

“Because,” continued Ferrara evenly, “in common with all humanity I am compound of man and woman, I can resent the enmity which drives me from shore to shore, but being myself a connoisseur of the red lips and laughing eyes of maidenhood⁠—I am thinking, more particularly of Myra⁠—I can forgive you, dear Cairn⁠—”

Then Cairn recovered himself.

“You white-faced cur!” he snarled through clenched teeth; his knuckles whitened as he stepped around the case. “You dare to stand there mocking me⁠—”

Ferrara again placed the case between himself and his enemy.

“Pause, my dear Cairn,” he said, without emotion. “What would you do? Be discreet, dear Cairn; reflect that I have only to call an attendant in order to have you pitched ignominiously into the street.”

“Before God! I will throttle the life from you!” said Cairn, in a voice savagely hoarse.

He sprang again towards Ferrara. Again the latter dodged around the case with an agility which defied the heavier man.

“Your temperament is so painfully Celtic, Cairn,” he protested mockingly. “I perceive quite clearly that you will not discuss this matter judicially. Must I then call for the attendant?”

Cairn clenched his fists convulsively. Through all the tumult of his rage, the fact had penetrated⁠—that he was helpless. He could not attack Ferrara in that place; he could not detain him against his will. For Ferrara had only to claim official protection to bring about the complete discomfiture of his assailant. Across the case containing the duplicate ring, he glared at this incarnate fiend, whom the law, which he had secretly outraged, now served to protect. Ferrara spoke again in his huskily musical voice.

“I regret that you will not be reasonable, Cairn. There is so much that I should like to say to you; there are so many things of interest which I could tell you. Do you know in some respects I am peculiarly gifted, Cairn? At times I can recollect, quite distinctly, particulars of former incarnations. Do you see that priestess lying there, just through the doorway? I can quite distinctly remember having met her when she was a girl; she was beautiful, Cairn. And I can even recall how, one night beside the Nile⁠—but I see that you are growing impatient! If you will not avail yourself of this opportunity, I must bid you good day⁠—”

He turned and walked towards the door. Cairn leapt after him; but Ferrara, suddenly beginning to run, reached the end of the Egyptian Room and darted out on to the landing, before his pursuer had time to realise what he was about.

At the moment that Ferrara turned the corner ahead of him, Cairn saw something drop. Coming to the end of the room, he stooped and picked up this object, which was a plaited silk cord