CHAPTER XXVIII.

A DOOR CLOSES

Barry returned home comparatively early. Neither Jim’s airy

philosophy nor his more serious sympathy, which was not without a

salting of worldly wisdom, had lifted the cloud of despondency that

had settled upon him. He felt utterly alone. Never, in the loneliest

hours he had known in the desert, had he experienced anything quite

like his mood of to-night.

He had fallen in love with a shadow--a mirage; the shadow had

materialized; and now, the substance was less real than the shadow.

The whole thing seemed to have gone out of tune. The Zalithea he

pictured as he walked along, the Zalithea who went to theatres and

parties, _was_ this the sleeping princess they had delivered from an

Egyptian tomb? Could it be the same, pale, slender girl from whose

lifeless body Danbazzar had torn those age-old wrappings?

In short, where had delusion begun? Where did delusion end?

The tired man smoking a soiled cigar lolled on the corner as Barry

approached his home. It occurred to him that it was the same cigar

that he had always smoked. It was unreal.

Without removing the root, the man touched his hat as Barry went in

and took out his key. John Cumberland kept early hours; and, except

when entertaining, his household was abed by midnight. Barry did not

expect to find anyone up.

On the tray in the lobby he discovered two letters. Neither was

important, but he switched on the light above the table and glanced at

them. As he stood there, dimly he could hear steamer whistles on the

river. One of them, a deep-throated blare, he thought he recognized as

the voice of the _Berengaria_. Even as his glance ran over the typed

page, in spirit he had crossed again to Southampton upon that quest

never to be forgotten which had led to Zalithea.

Then, thrilling in the stillness of the big house, came a soft cry!

Barry dropped the letter and turned, standing stock still, with

clenched hands.

He stared across at the closed door of the library. It was from there

the cry had come. All was silent, however, as he stepped quickly in

that direction. But, as he reached the door, in a strangled voice:

“Bahree!” he heard; then, in a coarse, laughing tone:

“Don’t be so silly!”

Zalithea was in the library--with Monty Edwards!

Barry flung the door open and walked in.

Across by the big, carved mantelpiece, with its overpowering

decoration from the wall of Medinet Habu, Edwards had the girl in his

arms. He was a thickset, coarse-grained type, whose boisterous good

humour served as a cloak for a rather nasty animalism. At the wrong

age for a man of his character he had acquired control of a fortune

little less than that of John Cumberland.

Zalithea’s lithe body was bent back like a bow as she strove to avoid

his lips. Edwards, holding her fast, stooped lower and lower to the

alluring, forbidden red mouth.

By what cunning strategy he had contrived to be left alone with her

Barry neither knew nor cared. It was the colossal outrage of the thing

that struck him dumb. The affront to him, to his father, was gross

enough. But the affront to this delicate, guarded treasure of some

long-forgotten court was beyond computation.

To his imaginative mind it appeared that Monty Edwards had disgraced

irrevocably the name of American hospitality.

So swiftly did he act, in his white-hot anger, that Edwards, hastily

releasing the girl, allowed her to sink down upon the carpet. He

turned in a flash--and Barry stood before him dumb with hate.

Edwards’s high colour fled. He spoke huskily.

“Hullo, Barry! Don’t get mad. It was only fun.”

Barry was murderously pale. For ten--fifteen--twenty beats of the

library clock, he stood, quivering; then:

“Get out!” he said. “Get out while I can remember you’re in _my_

house.”

Monty Edwards bandied no words with the speaker. He knew when a man

was seeing red. Head lowered and lips unsteady, he passed Barry and

walked out of the library.

Zalithea stood up, breathing quickly. But Barry never moved, never

stirred a muscle of his tensed-up body, until the closing of the front

door told him that Monty Edwards had left the house. Then he turned to

Zalithea.

She was dressed as he had seen her earlier in the evening. She was

pale but more utterly desirable than any woman in all the wide world.

Her long, dark eyes were fixed upon him in a sort of

wonder--questioningly--doubtingly. He unclenched his fists. No word

was spoken. But Zalithea stepped forward as if bidden.

His arms went around her like steel bands. He uttered a queer, pent-up

cry. He kissed her lips breathlessly, her hair, her eyes, her smooth,

creamy neck. He was in the throes of a veritable madness. His

long-repressed passion swept him away.…

When, at last, he released her, she fell back, raised her hands to her

eyes for a moment; then, giving him one long look of indescribable

intensity, as though she would imprint his image indelibly upon her

mind, she ran out of the room.

Standing as she had left him, his back to the lobby, he heard the

light patter of her footsteps as she raced upstairs.

Somewhere, above, a door closed softly.

And to that sound Barry found himself listening with a strained

intensity. It seemed in some way to be an answer to a question--to a

subconscious question that his mind was incapable of framing.

Exhausted by the fiercest emotions he had ever known, he dropped into

a big padded rest chair in which, evidently, Monty Edwards had been

sitting. A still-smouldering cigar lay in the little Oriental tray

attached to the chair arm.

Mentally, he was depressed. But his heart was singing. His former

experiences might have led him to doubt Zalithea’s sentiments. But he

could not forget that she had returned his kisses.

For an hour he waited, hoping yet not expecting that she would come

back. He lived again through the strange days and nights he had known

since that evening when Fate had steered the Rolls into a private

road--and he had seen a vision of Zalithea.

Imagination led him on. Once more he talked with Danbazzar and the

others in the tent in the _wâdi_ and walked beside Hassan es-Sugra

through those silent halls of the Great Temple. So walking in spirit,

with gods and Pharaohs beckoning secretly from moon-touched walls, he

fell asleep.

The cigar, in the tray at his elbow, smouldered on. In the still air

of the library, a bluish pencilling of smoke stole straightly upward.

It burned until only a powdery shell remained attached to a leafy

stub. But Barry never stirred. The night sounds of New York did not

reach him in his dreams. And the detective on duty outside the house

wondered why the library lights were still burning when dawn’s gray

mystery crept over the city.

Through the shades, morning light was competing with the electric

lamps when soft footsteps sounded on the thickly carpeted stairs.

Barry slept on. The footsteps crept lower and lower… and Zalithea

stood peeping in at the doorway.

She turned swiftly at sight of the sleeper, her fingers raised to her

lips. Old Safîyeh’s wrinkled face appeared in the lamplight. Then

Zalithea looked again at Barry, his ruffled curly head resting on one

shoulder. She watched him longingly, as a woman watches a sleeping

child. Once she stole forward, but hesitated and went back.… Very

softly she drew the door partly to.

The man on duty at the corner saw the two women come out and walk

away. He was not surprised. They frequently went for a walk in the

early hours of the morning, although he could not recall that they had

ever set out quite so early before.

As the front door closed, Barry moved. The movement rasped his neck

against his collar--and he awoke. Cramped, stale, heavy-headed, he

stared about him. Swiftly memory reasserted itself.

He stood up, stretching his cramped limbs. Then he crossed and

switched off the lights. The library clock registered half-past five.

He went upstairs, pausing outside Zalithea’s door and listening

intently. He could detect no sound. He passed on, mounted to the floor

above, and went to bed.

His next awakening was a tragic one.

John Cumberland burst into his room, with:

“Barry! Barry! Zalithea has disappeared!”

“What!”

Barry sprang out of bed, his eyes wide in sudden fear. John

Cumberland’s face was pale.

“She and Safîyeh went out at half-past five this morning. They have

not returned. It’s after ten o’clock.”

Half-past five… what memory did this awaken? Of course!…

“But I was in the library at that time!” Barry cried. “They must have

seen me!”

“Explain,” said John Cumberland. “What were you doing in the library

so early?”

Barry, very briefly, told the story, mincing no words, concealing

nothing. As he spoke, he was dressing in feverish haste.

“The door was closed, I suppose?” his father asked dully.

Barry paused in his task. He looked up.

“By heaven,” he said, “she must have closed it! Edwards left it open,

and I fell asleep watching the lobby. But it was half to when I woke

up!”

“Do you realize, Barry,” his father asked, “that it was probably the

shutting of the front door that awakened you?”

“I can’t bear to think of it.”

The house was in an uproar. Remembering that Zalithea knew next to

nothing of the language, and Safîyeh little more, it was impossible

to imagine their plight. In one fact, that Zalithea was not alone,

Barry found comfort.

John Cumberland’s private secretary was already in touch with the

police; and, as Barry came hurrying downstairs, Professor Blackwell

arrived.

“Cumberland!” he cried. “What’s this they tell me?”

“She’s gone, Blackwell,” was the reply. “No news.”

The Professor dropped into a lobby chair.

“Somehow, I can’t grasp it,” he said pathetically. “If she had been

alone I should have feared an accident, but as Safîyeh is with

her----”

“That’s what I think!” Barry interrupted eagerly. “An accident is out

of the question.”

“This being so,” the Professor went on, “what are we to conclude? Is

Danbazzar here?”

“Expected every minute,” John Cumberland replied shortly. “I naturally

’phoned there first, as she is used to visiting him.”

“She had not been there?”

John Cumberland shook his head.

“Tell him what happened last night, Barry,” he said, and hurried away.

Barry, hoping against hope that something in the occurrences of the

night might suggest to the scientific brain of Professor Blackwell a

clue to Zalithea’s motive, gave him an account of the matter. At last:

“It may be some primitive reaction,” the Professor murmured. “The

psychology of Zalithea is of course an unknown quantity.”

“You think she is frightened and so has run away?”

“Frankly, I don’t know what to think.”

“I can’t believe she would voluntarily leave the house,” Barry

declared. “Just think. Where could she possibly go to?”

Professor Blackwell shook his head.

“That is a question I cannot pretend to answer.”

At this moment Danbazzar arrived. As the door was opened he came into

the lobby, a big, dominating figure. But his stock was not quite so

perfectly knotted as usual, and his strange eyes held a very wild

light.

“Still no news?” he asked.

The blank faces about him were sufficient answer.

“Have her apartments been searched to make sure there’s nothing

there?”

Aunt Micky, very stern-faced, came downstairs.

“I have searched thoroughly,” she answered. “But it might be as well

if you looked, also.”

Danbazzar bowed and walked upstairs. Barry followed.

In the suite of apartments which had been furnished for the use of

Zalithea, a very faint perfume lingered. It caught Barry by the

throat. It spoke to him intimately. It was as though he had buried his

face in her fragrant hair; as though she were in his arms again.

The rooms were strangely appointed. They were scantily furnished in

the Eastern manner, with little inlaid tables and cabinets, and many

richly cushioned divans. Perforated silver lamps concealed the

electric lights, and the windows were screened with _mushrabiyeh_

work. The bedroom struck a more Western note, being equipped with a

wonderful dressing table possessing wing mirrors and laden with every

imaginable luxury of Paris.

There was no evidence of disorder or of hasty departure. The bleak

chamber adjoining in which the old Arab woman spent a great part of

her days afforded no better evidence.

Danbazzar crossed to a window and threw back the near-by _mushrabiyeh_

screen. For a long time he stood there, looking out.