A pang, almost physical, struck at my heart.
"Poor, dear old Smith!" I cried, with a break in my voice.
Dr. Gray, a neighbouring practitioner, appeared in the doorway at the
moment that I spoke the words.
"It's all right, Petrie," he said, reassuringly; "I think we took it
in time. I have thoroughly cauterised the wounds, and granted that no
complication sets in, he'll be on his feet again in a week or two."
I suppose I was in a condition closely bordering upon the hysterical.
At any rate, my behaviour was extraordinary. I raised both my hands
above my head.
"Thank God!" I cried at the top of my voice, "thank God!--thank God!"
"Thank Him, indeed," responded the musical voice of Aziz. He spoke
with all the passionate devoutness of the true Moslem.
Everything, even Karamaneh, was forgotten, and I started for the door
as though my life depended upon my speed. With one foot upon the
landing, I turned, looked back, and met the glance of Inspector
Weymouth.
"What have you done with the--body?" I asked.
"We haven't been able to get to it. That end of the vault collapsed
two minutes after we hauled you out!"
* * * * *
As I write, now, of these strange days, already they seem remote and
unreal. But, where other and more dreadful memories already are grown
misty, the memory of that evening in my rooms remains clear-cut and
intimate. It marked a crisis in my life.
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