The Sheik

There was a momentary silence in the room, and Diana became conscious

of a muffled, rhythmical beat near her, like the ticking of a great

clock, and realised with dull wonder that it was her own heart beating.

She seemed turned to stone, petrified with the horror of the last few

moments. Her eyes were glued to the still figure on the rug before her

with the gaping wound in the breast, from which the blood was welling,

staining the dark draperies of the woman's clothes, and creeping slowly

down to the rug on which the body lay. She was dazed, and odd thoughts

flitted through her mind. It was a pity, she thought stupidly, that the

blood should spoil the rug. It was a lovely rug. She wondered what it

would have cost in Biskra--less, probably, than it would in London.

Then she forgot the rug as her eyes travelled upward to the woman's

face. The mouth was open and the streak of blood was drying, but it was

the eyes, protruding, agonised, that brought Diana abruptly to herself.

She seemed to wake suddenly to the full realisation of what had

happened and to her own peril. She felt physically sick for a moment,

but she fought it down. Very slowly she raised her head, and, meeting

Ibraheim Omair's eyes fixed on her, she looked full at him across the

dead woman's body and laughed! It was that or shriek. The curls were

clinging drenched on her forehead, and she wondered if her clenched

hands would ever unclose. She must make no sign, she must not scream or

faint, she must keep her nerve until Ahmed came. Oh, dear God, send him

quickly! The laugh wavered hysterically, and she caught her lip between

her teeth. She must do something to distract her attention from that

awful still shape at her feet. Almost unconsciously she grasped the

cigarette case in her pocket and took it out, dragging her eyes from

the horrible sight on which they were fixed, and chose and lit a

cigarette with slow care, flicking the still-burning match on to the

carpet between the feet of the negro who stood near her. He had not

moved since he had failed to stop the woman's entrance, and the two

stationed behind the pile of cushions had stood motionless, their eyes

hardly following the tragedy enacted before them. At a nod from the

chief they came now and carried away the body of the woman. One

returned in a moment, bringing fresh coffee, and then vanished

noiselessly.

Then Ibraheim Omair leaned forward with a horrible leer and beckoned to

Diana, patting the cushions beside him. Mastering the loathing that

filled her she sat down with all the unconcern she could assume. The

proximity of the man nauseated her. He reeked of sweat and grease and

ill-kept horses, the pungent stench of the native. Her thoughts went

back to the other Arab, of whose habits she had been forced into such

an intimate knowledge. Remembering all that she had heard of the desert

people she had been surprised at the fastidious care he took of

himself, the frequent bathing, the spotless cleanliness of his robes,

the fresh wholesomeness that clung about him, the faint, clean smell of

shaving-soap mingling with the perfume of the Turkish tobacco that was

always associated with him.