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.