"It was my fault. I should have told her," he repeated.
He drained his cup.
The brooding silence forbade even an attempt at making conversation. My nerves were rapidly getting on edge; and I hoped bin Ayyub would end the interview.
"I am leaving very soon, effendi," he finally resumed. "Saoud will pack up my goods. I have been waiting for you to return the throne-rug; and I was right in waiting. For the sake of my illustrious ancestor, I treasure it. But much has happened in the last few days. I do not care to have it in my house any longer. My brother's son in Tekrit will take it."
I could think of no appropriate comment.
"Here is the piece which was exchanged for the throne-rug. Take it with you when you leave, and return it to its owner."
Which was also fair enough; though Revell deserved no such fortune after his shabby trick. The loss might be a lesson to him.
"May I ask you to be so kind as to lift the cover of the jar of attar?" requested bin Ayyub, as he set aside his empty cup.
I could see that he was momentarily becoming paler. There was not a drop of blood beneath his bronzed skin. The corners of his mouth and the muscles of his cheeks twitched perceptibly; so that his request did not seem at all out of order. Though if I myself felt as he looked, the last thing in the world I'd want would be a whiff of that overpowering perfume.
"Certainly," I replied.
Poor devil! He seemed to be having a chill, shivering noticeably. No wonder he wanted me to take Saoud's place in the ritual of the perfume jar.
As I advanced across die wondrously carpeted floor, I heard him mutter to himself, "One is at times hasty. . . ."
I parted the curtains that veiled the great urn of Byzantine glass, and lifted the heavy cover; then, dizzied by the overwhelming surge of sweetness, recoiled a pace.
And then I dropped the cover.
Christ in heaven! But why deny my own eyes? In the throbbing, glowing rosy-amber jar was the shapely form of Djénane Hanoum! Faintly distorted by the refraction of the curved surfaces of the urn and the attar, but nevertheless and beyond any mistake, that was the Gurjestani girl. I stared, fascinated, then looked behind the jar, hoping . . . ridiculous hope! . . . to find that she was standing on the other side, and that I had seen her through, and not in, the urn.
It is strange how in such a moment one notices trifles.
"La illah illa allah . . . wa Muhammad raul allhi . . ." came the murmuring accents of bin Ayyub, very low, but distinct.
Even in the grip of that horribly lovely sight, I had distinctly caught the Moslem's "There is no God but Allah. . . ." And then, scarcely perceptible, "Djénane. . . ."
My movements must have been those of a mechanical toy.
As I caught the curtains on the hilts of the simitars hanging at each side of the alcove, I noted that the fine, hard-woven cord of silk was missing. And then I found myself wondering what poison the blue cup of mourning had contained.
Not until fully a minute later did it dawn on me why bin Ayyub's eyes had flamed with immeasurable despair when I had reminded him that since I had returned the throne-rug of Saladin, he had
