But there was no sign of levity in him. He told
the actual truth as far as in him lay, yet half ashamed of what he told. And a good deal he left out, too. "She's got a face of the same sort, that Statham horror," his wife said
with a shiver. "Reduce the size, and paint in awful black eyes, and
you've got her exactly--a living idol." And all three laughed, yet a
laughter without merriment in it. "And you spoke to the man?" "I did," the Englishman answered, "though I confess I'm a bit ashamed of
the way I spoke. Fact is, I was excited, thunderingly excited, and felt
a kind of anger. I wanted to kick the beggar for practising such bally
rubbish, and in such a place too. Yet all the time--well, well, I
believe it was sheer funk now," he laughed; "for I felt uncommonly queer
out there in the dusk, alone with--with that kind of business; and I was
angry with myself for feeling it. Anyhow, I went up--I'd lost my donkey
boy as well, remember--and slated him like a dog. I can't remember what
I said exactly--only that he stood and stared at me in silence. That
made it worse--seemed twice as real then. The beggar said no single word
the whole time. He signed to me with one hand to clear out. And then,
suddenly out of nothing--she--that woman--appeared and stood beside him. I never saw her come. She must have been behind some boulder or other,
for she simply rose out of the ground. She stood there and stared at me
too--bang in the face. She was turned towards the sunset--what was left
of it in the west--and her black eyes shone like--ugh! I can't describe
it--it was shocking." "She spoke?" "She said five words--and her voice--it'll make you laugh--it was
metallic like a gong: 'You are in danger here.' That's all she said. I
simply turned and cleared out as fast as ever I could. But I had to go
on foot. My donkey had followed its boy long before. I tell you--smile
as you may--my blood was all curdled for an hour afterwards." Then he explained that he felt some kind of explanation or apology was
due, since the couple lodged in his own hotel, and how he approached the
man in the smoking-room after dinner. A conversation resulted--the man
was quite intelligent after all--of which only one sentence had remained
in his mind. "Perhaps you can explain it, Felix. I wrote it down, as well as I could
remember. The rest confused me beyond words or memory; though I must
confess it did not seem--well, not utter rot exactly. It was about
astrology and rituals and the worship of the old Egyptians, and I don't
know what else besides. Only, he made it intelligible and almost
sensible, if only I could have got the hang of the thing enough to
remember it. You know," he added, as though believing in spite of
himself, "there _is_ a lot of that wonderful old Egyptian religious
business still hanging about in the atmosphere of this place, say what
you like." "But this sentence?" Henriot asked. And the other went off to get a
note-book where he had written it down. "He was jawing, you see," he continued when he came back, Henriot and
his wife having kept silence meanwhile, "about direction being of
importance in religious ceremonies, West and North symbolising certain
powers, or something of the kind, why people turn to the East and all
that sort of thing, and speaking of the whole Universe as if it had
living forces tucked away in it that expressed themselves somehow when
roused up. That's how I remember it anyhow. And then he said this
thing--in answer to some fool question probably that I put." And he read
out of the note-book:

"'You were in danger because you came through the Gateway of the West,
and the Powers from the Gateway of the East were at that moment rising,
and therefore in direct opposition to you.'" Then came the following, apparently a simile offered by way of
explanation. Mansfield read it in a shamefaced tone, evidently prepared
for laughter:

"'Whether I strike you on the back or in the face determines what kind
of answering force I rouse in you. Direction is significant.' And he
said it was the period called the Night of Power--time when the Desert
encroaches and spirits are close." And tossing the book aside, he lit his pipe again and waited a moment to
hear what might be said. "Can you explain such gibberish?" he asked at
length, as neither of his listeners spoke. But Henriot said he couldn't. And the wife then took up her own tale of stories that had grown about
this singular couple. These were less detailed, and therefore less impressive, but all
contributed something towards the atmosphere of reality that framed the
entire picture. They belonged to the type one hears at every dinner
party in Egypt--stories of the vengeance mummies seem to take on those
who robbed them, desecrating their peace of centuries; of a woman
wearing a necklace of scarabs taken from a princess's tomb, who felt
hands about her throat to strangle her; of little Ka figures, Pasht
goddesses, amulets and the rest, that brought curious disaster to those
who kept them. They are many and various, astonishingly circumstantial
often, and vouched for by persons the reverse of credulous. The modern
superstition that haunts the desert gullies with Afreets has nothing in
common with them. They rest upon a basis of indubitable experience; and
they remain--inexplicable. And about the personalities of Lady Statham
and her nephew they crowded like flies attracted by a dish of fruit. The
Arabs, too, were afraid of her. She had difficulty in getting guides and
dragomen. "My dear chap," concluded Mansfield, "take my advice and have nothing to
do with 'em. There _is_ a lot of queer business knocking about in this
old country, and people like that know ways of reviving it somehow. It's
upset you already; you looked scared, I thought, the moment you came
in." They laughed, but the Englishman was in earnest. "I tell you what,"
he added, "we'll go off for a bit of shooting together. The fields along
the Delta are packed with birds now: they're home early this year on
their way to the North. What d'ye say, eh?" But Henriot did not care about the quail shooting. He felt more inclined
to be alone and think things out by himself. He had come to his friends
for comfort, and instead they had made him uneasy and excited. His
interest had suddenly doubled. Though half afraid, he longed to know
what these two were up to--to follow the adventure to the bitter end. He
disregarded the warning of his host as well as the premonition in his
own heart. The sand had caught his feet. There were moments when he laughed in utter disbelief, but these were
optimistic moods that did not last. He always returned to the feeling
that truth lurked somewhere in the whole strange business, and that if
he joined forces with them, as they seemed to wish, he would
witness--well, he hardly knew what--but it enticed him as danger does
the reckless man, or death the suicide. The sand had caught his mind.