The Quest of the Sacred Slipper

CONTENTS

I. THE PHANTOM SCIMITAR.
II. THE GIRL WITH THE VIOLET EYES
III. "HASSAN OF ALEPPO"
IV. THE OBLONG BOX
V. THE OCCUPANT OF THE BOX
VI. THE RING OF THE PROPHET
VII. FIRST ATTEMPT ON THE SAFE
VIII. THE VIOLET EYES AGAIN
IX. SECOND ATTEMPT ON THE SAFE
X. AT THE BRITISH ANTIQUARIAN MUSEUM
XI. THE HOLE IN THE BLIND
XII. THE HASHISHIN WATCH
XIII. THE WHITE BEAM
XIV. A SCREAM IN THE NIGHT
XV. A SHRIVELLED HAND
XVI. THE DWARF
XVII. THE WOMAN WITH THE BASKET
XVIII. WHAT CAME THROUGH THE WINDOW
XIX. A RAPPING AT MIDNIGHT
XX. THE GOLDEN PAVILION
XXI. THE BLACK TUBE
XXII. THE LIGHT OF EL-MEDINEH
XXIII. THE THREE MESSAGES
XXIV. I KEEP THE APPOINTMENT
XXV. THE WATCHER IN BANK CHAMBERS
XXVI. THE STRONG-ROOM
XXVII. THE SLIPPER
XXVIII. CARNETA
XXIX. WE MEET MR. ISAACS
XXX. AT THE GATE HOUSE
XXXI. THE POOL OF DEATH
XXXII. SIX PATCHES
XXXIII. HOW WE WERE REENFORCED
XXXIV. MY LAST MEETING WITH HASSAN OF ALEPPO




THE QUEST OF THE SACRED SLIPPER




CHAPTER I

THE PHANTOM SCIMITAR


I was not the only passenger aboard the S.S. Mandalay who perceived
the disturbance and wondered what it might portend and from whence
proceed. A goodly number of passengers were joining the ship at
Port Said. I was lounging against the rail, pipe in mouth, lazily
wondering, with a large vagueness.

What a heterogeneous rabble it was!--a brightly coloured rabble,
but the colours all were dirty, like the town and the canal. Only
the sky was clean; the sky and the hard, merciless sunlight which
spared nothing of the uncleanness, and defied one even to think
of the term dear to tourists, "picturesque." I was in that kind
of mood. All the natives appeared to be pockmarked; all the
Europeans greasy with perspiration.

But what was the stir about?

I turned to the dark, bespectacled young man who leaned upon the
rail beside me. From the first I had taken to Mr. Ahmad Ahmadeen.

"There is some kind of undercurrent of excitement among the natives,"
I said, "a sort of subdued Greek chorus is audible. What's it all
about?"

Mr. Ahmadeen smiled. After a gaunt fashion, he was a handsome man
and had a pleasant smile.

"Probably," he replied, "some local celebrity is joining the ship."

I stared at him curiously.

"Any idea who he is?" (The soul of the copyhunter is a restless
soul.)

A group of men dressed in semi-European fashion--that is, in
European fashion save for their turbans, which were green--passed
close to us along the deck.

Ahmadeen appeared not to have heard the question.