“He was jawing, you see,” he continued when he came back, Henriot and his wife having kept silence meanwhile, “about direction being of importance in religious ceremonies, West and North symbolising certain powers, or something of the kind, why people turn to the East and all that sort of thing, and speaking of the whole Universe as if it had living forces tucked away in it that expressed themselves somehow when roused up.  That’s how I remember it anyhow.  And then he said this thing—­in answer to some fool question probably that I put.”  And he read out of the note-book: 

“’You were in danger because you came through the Gateway of the West, and the Powers from the Gateway of the East were at that moment rising, and therefore in direct opposition to you.’”

Then came the following, apparently a simile offered by way of explanation.  Mansfield read it in a shamefaced tone, evidently prepared for laughter: 

“’Whether I strike you on the back or in the face determines what kind of answering force I rouse in you.  Direction is significant.’  And he said it was the period called the Night of Power—­time when the Desert encroaches and spirits are close.”

And tossing the book aside, he lit his pipe again and waited a moment to hear what might be said.  “Can you explain such gibberish?” he asked at length, as neither of his listeners spoke.  But Henriot said he couldn’t.  And the wife then took up her own tale of stories that had grown about this singular couple.

These were less detailed, and therefore less impressive, but all contributed something towards the atmosphere of reality that framed the entire picture.  They belonged to the type one hears at every dinner party in Egypt—­stories of the vengeance mummies seem to take on those who robbed them, desecrating their peace of centuries; of a woman wearing a necklace of scarabs taken from a princess’s tomb, who felt hands about her throat to strangle her; of little Ka figures, Pasht goddesses, amulets and the rest, that brought curious disaster to those who kept them.  They are many and various, astonishingly circumstantial often, and vouched for by persons the reverse of credulous.  The modern superstition that haunts the desert gullies with Afreets has nothing in common with them.  They rest upon a basis of indubitable experience; and they remain—­inexplicable.  And about the personalities of Lady Statham and her nephew they crowded like flies attracted by a dish of fruit.  The Arabs, too, were afraid of her.  She had difficulty in getting guides and dragomen.

“My dear chap,” concluded Mansfield, “take my advice and have nothing to do with ’em.  There is a lot of queer business knocking about in this old country, and people like that know ways of reviving it somehow.  It’s upset you already; you looked scared, I thought, the moment you came in.”  They laughed, but the Englishman was in earnest.  “I tell you what,” he added, “we’ll go off for a bit of shooting together.  The fields along the Delta are packed with birds now:  they’re home early this year on their way to the North.  What d’ye say, eh?”