What was the matter with which I was warned not to interfere? Might I not, by my mere presence in that place, unwittingly be interfering now?
With the station-master's directions humming like a refrain in my ears, I passed through the sleeping village and out on to the road. The moon was exceptionally bright and unobscured, although a dense bank of cloud crept slowly from the west, and before me the path stretched as an unbroken thread of silvery white twining a sinuous way up the bracken-covered slope, to where, sharply defined against the moonlight sky, a coppice in grotesque silhouette marked the summit.
The month had been dry and tropically hot, and my footsteps rang crisply upon the hard ground. There is nothing more deceptive than a straight road up a hill; and half an hour's steady tramping but saw me approaching the trees.
I had so far resolutely endeavoured to keep my mind away from the idea of surveillance. Now, as I paused to light my pipe — a never-failing friend in loneliness — I perceived something move in the shadows of a neighbouring bush.
This object was not unlike a bladder, and the very incongruity of its appearance served to revive all my apprehensions. Taking up my grip, as though I had noticed nothing of an alarming nature, I pursued my way up the slope, leaving a trail of tobacco smoke in my wake; and having my revolver secreted up my right coat-sleeve.
Successfully resisting a temptation to glance behind, I entered the cover of the coppice, and, now invisible to any one who might be dogging me, stood and looked back upon the moon-bright road.
There was no living thing in sight, the road was empty as far as the eye could see. The coppice now remained to be negotiated, and then, if the station-master's directions were not at fault, "Uplands" should be visible beyond. Taking, therefore, what I had designed to be a final glance back down the hillside, I was preparing to resume my way when I saw something — something that arrested me.
It was a long way behind — so far that, had the moon been less bright, I could never have discerned it. What it was I could not even conjecture; but it had the appearance of a vague gray patch, moving — not along the road, but through the undergrowth — in my direction.
For a second my eye rested upon it. Then I saw a second patch — a third — a fourth!
Six!
There were six gray patches creeping up the slope toward me!
The sight was unnerving. What were these things that approached, silently, stealthily — like snakes in the grass?
A fear, unlike anything I had known before the quest of the Prophet's slipper had brought fantastic horror into my life, came upon me. Revolver in hand I ran — ran for my life toward the gap in the trees that marked the coppice end. And as I went something hummed through the darkness beside my head, some projectile, some venomous thing that missed its mark by a bare inch!
Painfully conversant with the uncanny weapons employed by the Hashishin, I knew now, beyond any possibility of doubt, that death was behind me.
A pattering like naked feet sounded on the road, and, without pausing in my headlong career, I sent a random shot into the blackness.
The crack of the Smith and Wesson reassured me. I pulled up short, turned, and looked back toward the trees.
Nothing — no one!
Breathing heavily, I crammed my extinguished briar into my pocket — re-charged the empty chamber of the revolver — and started to run again toward a light that showed over the treetops to my left.
That, if the man's directions were right, was "Uplands" — if his directions were wrong — then…
A shrill whistle — minor, eerie, in rising cadence — sounded on the dead silence with piercing clearness! Six whistles — seemingly from all around me — replied!
Some object came humming through the air, and I ducked wildly.
On and on I ran — flying from an unknown, but, as a warning instinct told me, deadly peril — ran as a man runs pursued by devils.
The road bent sharply to the left then forked. Overhanging trees concealed the house, and the light, though high up under the eaves, was no longer visible. Trusting to Providence to guide me, I plunged down the lane that turned to the left, and, almost exhausted, saw the gates before me — saw the sweep of the drive, and the moonlight, gleaming on the windows!
None of the windows were illuminated.
Straight up to the iron gates I raced.
They were locked!
Without a moment's hesitation I hurled my grip over the top and clambered up the bars! As I got astride, from the blackness of the lane came the ominous hum, and my hat went spinning away across the lawn! — the black cloud veiled the moon and complete darkness fell.
Then I dropped and ran for the house — shouting, though all but winded—"Hilton! Hilton! Open the door!"
Sinking exhausted on the steps, I looked toward the gates — but they showed only dimly in the dense shadows of the trees.
Bzzz! Buzz!
I dropped flat in the portico as something struck the metal knob of the door and rebounded over me. A shower of gravel told of another misdirected projectile.
Crack! Crack! Crack! The revolver spoke its short reply into the mysterious darkness; but the night gave up no sound to tell of a shot gone home.
"Hilton! Hilton!" I cried, banging on the panels with the butt of the weapon. "Open the door! Open the door!"
And now I heard the coming footsteps along the hall within; heavy bolts were withdrawn — the door swung open — and Hilton, pale-faced, appeared. His hand shot out, grabbed my coat collar; and weak, exhausted, I found myself snatched into safety, and the door rebolted.
"Thank God!" I whispered. "Thank God! Hilton, look to all your bolts and fastenings. Hell is outside!"
Chapter 33
HOW WE WERE REINFORCED
Hilton, I learned, was living the simple life at "Uplands." The place was not yet decorated and was only partly furnished. But with his man, Soar, he had been in solitary occupation for a week.
"Feel better now?" he asked anxiously.
I reached for my tumbler and blew a cloud of smoke into the air. I could hear Soar's footsteps as he made the round of bolts and bars, testing each anxiously.
"Thanks, Hilton," I said. "I'm quite all right. You are naturally wondering what the devil it all means? Well, then, I wired you from Euston that I was coming by the 6:55."
"H— Post Office shuts at 7. I shall get your wire in the morning!"
"That explains your failing to meet me. Now for my explanation!"
"Surrounding this house at the present moment," I continued, "are members of an Eastern organization — the Hashishin, founded in Khorassan in the eleventh century and flourishing to-day!"
"Do you mean it, Cavanagh?"
"I do! One Hassan of Aleppo is the present Sheikh of the order, and he has come to England, bringing a fiendish company in his train, in pursuit of the sacred slipper of Mohammed, which was stolen by the late Professor Deeping—"
"Surely I have read something about this?"
"Probably. Deeping was murdered by Hassan! The slipper was placed in the Antiquarian Museum—"
"From which it was stolen again!"
"Correct — by Earl Dexter, America's foremost crook! But the real facts have never got into print. I am the only pressman who knows them, and I have good reason for keeping my knowledge to myself! Dexter is dead (I believe I saw his ghost to-day). But although, to the best of my knowledge, the accursed slipper is in the hands of Hassan and Company, I have been watched since I left Euston, and on my way to 'Uplands' my life was attempted!"
"For God's sake, why?"
"I cannot surmise, Hilton. Deeping, for certain reasons that are irrelevant at the moment, left the keys of the case at the Museum in my perpetual keeping — but the case was rifled a second time—"