“Is it you, Justin?” said a voice.

“It is I, Tom,” I said, looking vacantly around.

“And where is Kaffar?” said another voice, which I recognized as Voltaire’s.

“Kaffar?  I—­I do not know.”

“But you have been together.”

“Have we?” I said vacantly.

“You know you have.  What is that in your hand?”

I had scarcely known what I had been saying or doing up to this time, but as he spoke I looked at my hand.

In the light of the moon I saw a knife red with blood, and my hand, too, was also discoloured.

“What does this mean?” cried Voltaire.

“I do not know.  I am dazed—­bewildered.”

“But that is Kaffar’s knife.  I know he had it this very evening.  Where is Kaffar now?”

“Is it true?” I remember saying.  “Have we been together?” “That’s his knife, at any rate.  And what is this?”

Voltaire picked up something from the ground and looked at it.  “Kaffar’s,” he said.  “Look, Mr. Blake; do you recognize this?”

I looked and saw a finely-worked neckcloth, on which was written in Arabic characters the words “Aba Wady Kaffar.”  It had every appearance of being soiled by severe wrenching, and on it were spots of blood.

My faculties were rapidly returning to me, yet I stood as one in a dream.

“You say, Mr. Justin Blake, that you do not know where Kaffar is, yet you hold in your hand his knife, which is red with blood.  Here is his scarf, which has evidently been strained, and on it are spots of blood, while all around are marks indicating a struggle.  I say you do know what this means, and you must tell us.”

I reeled under this terrible shock.  What had I done?  Could it be that I had murdered this man?  Had I?  Had I?

“I do not know what it means,” I said.  “I think I am ill.”

“Men usually are when they have done what you have,” he said.

“Why, what have I done?” I said, in a dazed kind of a way.  “Done!” he repeated.  “You know best about that, in spite of the part you play.  Nevertheless, Kaffar has not gone without leaving a friend behind him, and you will have to show how you came by that”—­pointing to the knife, which I had dropped with a shudder; “this”—­holding up the neckcloth; “you must explain these marks”—­pointing to footmarks near the water’s edge; “besides which, you will have to produce my friend.”

A terrible thought flashed into my mind.  I had again been acting under the influence of this man’s power.  By some means he had made me the slave of his will, and I had unknowingly killed Kaffar, and he, like the fiend he was, had come to sweep me out of his road.  Perchance, too, Kaffar’s death might serve him in good stead.  Undoubtedly the Egyptian knew too much for Voltaire, and so I was made a tool whereby he could be freed from troublesome obstacles.  The idea maddened me.  I would proclaim the story to every one.  If I were hanged I cared not.  I opened my mouth to tell Tom the whole truth, but I could not utter a word.  My tongue refused to articulate; my power of speech left me.