CHAPTER X
THE HAND
The reason for O'Rourke's lightning change of front was not far to seek; indeed, when mam'selle raised her eyes, it was to see it and to comprehend.
While the Irishman had been standing before the woman, holding her hands and bending low his head that he might not miss one of her hardly uttered words, the stillness of the great, vacant palace struck sharply upon his sentience.
His ears were trained to a quickness; the creaking and the rustle in the adjacent rooms might well be those sounds which are never absent from an abandoned dwelling after nightfall.
But, O'Rourke, after learning that the woman was the daughter of the Turkish diplomat, Constantine Pasha, had not been slow to identify the building to which she had caused him to be led; plainly enough, it must be the former home of her late father, abandoned to decay and the dry rot of Egypt after its owner's death.
And he was by no means satisfied that, because the place was the property of mam'selle, she was alone in it, as appearances at first had seemed to indicate—that is, alone save for the Nubian slave.
He remembered having remarked the place in his wanderings about Cairo—a huge, rambling hotel of two stories, covering much ground, with the outward seeming of absolute desolation.
It came to him, then, that no fitter place in all Cairo, no spot more secure from the surveillance of spies or the prying of eavesdroppers, could have been hit upon for a rendezvous for the conspirators than this same palace; and the fact that the woman was its owner rendered it available and doubly suitable.
Very likely, then, he deemed the possibility that there might be others—Aziz, perhaps, or even Viazma—waiting in a convenient room for the result of mam'selle's efforts for "the Cause."
So, when he caught a sound much resembling a man's footsteps in a distant room, O'Rourke did not lay it to nervous imaginings; neither did he connect them with the slave; in his own mind he felt quite assured that some one else was moving toward them.
Of one thing he could not be positive, however, and that was whether or not the sounds he heard were from an adjoining apartment or from one more distant. They were so slight that they might well be near at hand; at the same time, the contrary was possible.
It behooved him to maintain a lively watchfulness and an eye alert to see the first loophole for escape. He was very happy in the knowledge that his revolver lay snug in the pocket of his evening coat; but he dared not move his hand to it, under the circumstances. If the listener were, in fact, near enough to see, such action might prove disastrous; he might not be sure that an enemy was not at that very moment surveying him through almost any aperture in the torn and flimsy wall hangings.
Behind him was a door—a fact of which he had taken note by reason of the draft causing the portière that hid it to belly outward.
Likewise—and this proved O'Rourke's salvation—behind the woman of the night was a small glass, set into the wall: an old and tarnished mirror, which, nevertheless, had sufficient reflecting power to be of service.
Into it, then, from time to time, the man had been casting furtive glances with a care that mam'selle should not observe him.
The precaution had proven of great value; at the precise moment when the woman, herself with head lowered, had choked with tears, well-nigh, in the fulness of her emotion, O'Rourke heard a creak not thirty feet away—or so he could have sworn.
And then, while she groped in the maze of her thoughts, for the words she desired, he saw the portière cautiously lifted to one side.
In the dark entry thus exposed stood the figure of a man;, and that man he whom O'Rourke had most of all, just then, to fear—Prince Vladislaus Viazma.
He stood quietly regarding them, an attentive smile upon, his face showing that he had not overheard what had passed between the two. There was an element of gratification in his expression that would not have been there had he dreamed that mam'selle had failed in subjugating the Irishman.
The prince was plainly prepared for such a failure, however; his arms were folded, the left above the right, and in the hollow of the left elbow rested the muzzle of a revolver, its body and the hand that held it being concealed by the folds of the sleeve.
From where the Russian stood he could, without moving, send a bullet into O'Rourke,—a tormenting contingency to the Irishman.
He—the prince—remained perfectly quiet while the woman did; but when she had ended her murmured confession with the honest assertion, "I am glad," an expression of unholy joy had passed over the man's features. There was, of course, but one way of interpreting the woman's words to one who knew her heart and her purpose with O'Rourke.
So O'Rourke had made quick use of his five wits; they had stood him in good stead many a time in the past, nor did they fail him now. His words were prompted by the desire to stave off extermination until the last moment; delays would be dangerous—to Prince Viazma.
And, somehow, the man knew that he had touched the woman's heart, until then dormant, in this goddess of Egyptian night; he had beaten her fairly in argument; she had acknowledged the justness of his stand, and had congratulated him on his courage in abiding by it.
He felt, intuitively—and in dealing with woman, man must needs meet her with her own most effective weapon, both of offense and defense, intuition—that he might throw himself upon her generosity. Whether he had weakened her in her devotion to the Cause or not was a matter aside from the fact that her heart was softened toward him, that she would aid him.
So he had declared, "I am for mam'selle's cause!" Which was pure equivocation.
And the next instant, when he saw her look of supreme astonishment as she raised her head and glanced over his shoulder to the open doorway and to Monsieur the Diplomat, he bent toward her and whispered hurriedly:
"My life is in the hollow of your palm, mam'selle. Do with it as ye will. A word this way or that will save, or—destroy me."
In this Viazma saw nothing but such gallantry as he knew the man to be prone to; the effect of which was heightened by the fact that simultaneously the woman's face burned crimson.
"Poor Aziz!" thought Viazma.
And, "Monsieur O'Rourke, you make me very happy," said the woman. "I have not lived in vain, monsieur!"
The double entente touched the Irishman. "God bless ye!" he whispered hoarsely.
But the woman jerked away her hands quickly, as though confused.
"Monsieur le Prince!" she cried.
Viazma, assured that all was well, stepped into the room, dexterously dropping the revolver into the pocket of his. dinner coat—keeping his hand upon it, however, ready to fire in event of any misunderstanding.
"Pardon," he purred, grimacing his approval; "I did not wish to intrude. Mam'selle, you have won our little bet. Colonel O'Rourke, permit me to congratulate you on your sound common sense. Believe me, sir, it is well to follow the example of Providence and fight on the side with the heaviest ordnance."
"But that," O'Rourke assured him, "is not me reason for abjuring me views of last evening, monsieur. I. am, unfortunately, susceptible to the charms of the fair sex."
"There," O'Rourke muttered savagely to himself, "if that's not sufficiently crass to hoodwink ye, me diplomatist—well, I'm as big a fool as I hope ye think me."
But Viazma was already beyond suspecting. He regarded the conquest of O'Rourke as complete.
"Let us all," he suggested, "join the others and announce to them our good fortune."
"The divvle!" thought O'Rourke dismayed. "Others! Faith, I am in for it!"
"If mam'selle will lead the way—" suggested the Russian. He bowed. The woman laughed lightly, and complied, sweeping out of the room.
"Monsieur le Colonel," suggested Viazma, "you will precede me. Oh, I insist. Or is it that you prefer your future title, 'O'Rourke Pasha'?"
O'Rourke gave in with what grace he could muster. "The little whelp!" he ground through his teeth—the while he smiled. "What's he afraid of, that he keeps his pistol in his fist? That I'll brain him? Faith, he may well be so!"