She was going to strangle him, the time-hallowed practice of the East. He tried to stop her, lifted his heavy hands, but they were powerless, like so much dead wood. He swelled his neck muscles, but it was useless; the silk was cutting in all round, a red-hot wire. He had a flash picture of Osman Bâki standing over his body, wagging his head regretfully and saying, “I said so,” Osman Bâki with the Owls’ House for background. It was all over; the girl had waited and got him in the end. Even at that moment he admired her for it. She had spirit; never had he seen such spirit. Came a pang of intolerable pain, his eyeballs were starting out, his head was bursting open—and then the tension at his throat inexplicably relaxed. Ortho rolled over, panting and retching, and as he did so heard footsteps on the stairs. A fist thumped on the door, a voice cried, “Kaid! Kaid!” and there was Osman Bâki. He peered into the room, holding a lantern before him. “Kaid, are you there? Where are you? There is a riot of Draouia in the Djeema El Fna; two troops to go out. Oh, there you are—_Bismillah_! What is this?” He sprang across to where Ortho lay and bent over him. “What is the matter? Are you ill? What is it?” “Nothing,” Ortho croaked. “Trying hasheesh . . . took too much . . . nothing at all. See to troops yourself . . . go now.” He coughed and coughed. “Hasheesh!” The Turk sniffed, stared at him suspiciously, glanced round the room, caught sight of the girl and held up the lantern. “Ha-ha!” The two stood rigid eye to eye, the soldier with chin stuck forward, every hair bristling, like a mastiff about to spring, the girl unflinching, three beads of her black necklace in her teeth. “Ha-ha!” Osman put the lantern deliberately on the ground beside him and stepped forward, crouched double, his hands outstretched like claws. “You snake,” he muttered. “You Arab viper, I’ll . . . I’ll . . .” Ortho hoisted himself on his elbow. The girl was superb! So slight and yet so defiant. “Osman,” he rasped, “Osman, friend, go! The riot! Go, it is an order!” The Turk stopped, stood up, relaxed, turned slowly about and picked up the lantern. He looked at Ortho, walked to the door, hesitated, shot a blazing glance at the girl, gave his mustache a vicious tug and went out. Silence but for the sputter of the brazier and the squeak of a mouse in the wall. Then Ortho heard the soft plud-plud of bare feet crossing the room and he knew the girl was standing over him. “Well, sweet,” he sighed, “come to complete your work? I am still in your hands.” She tumbled on her knees beside him, clasped his head to her breast and sobbed, sobbed, sobbed as though she would never stop. CHAPTER XXIII