Suddenly releasing his hold altogether, the Hindu glaring into the
empurpled face of the Grand Duke, shot out one arm and pointed with a
quivering finger along the path.
"Go!" he said.
The Grand Duke clenched his fists, looked from face to face as if
calculating his chances, then shrugged his shoulders, very
deliberately wiped his neck and wrists, where the Indian had held him,
with a large silk handkerchief and threw the handkerchief on the
ground. I saw a speck of blood upon the silk. Without another glance
he walked away, Casimir following sheepishly. It is needless, perhaps,
to add that Casimir had not recognized me.
I turned to the dancer, touching the peak of my cap.
"Can I be of any assistance to mademoiselle?" I asked.
"Thank you--no," she replied.
She placed five francs in my hand and set off rapidly through the
trees in the direction of the road, her bloodthirsty but faithful
attendant at her heels!
I stood scratching my head and looking after her.
That afternoon I posted a man acquainted with Hindustani to tap any
message which might be sent to or from the cafe used by Chunda Lal.
I learned that the Grand Duke had taken a stage box at the Montmartre
theatre at which the dancer was appearing, and I decided that I would
be present also.
A great surprise was in store for me.
Zara el-Khala had at this time established a reputation which
extended beyond those circles from which the regular patrons of this
establishment were exclusively drawn and which had begun to penetrate
to all parts of Paris.
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