A wintry smile flitted across his features,—­it was clear that he regarded me as a good deal worse than a medical man.  Presently he began to tell me one of the most remarkable tales which even I had heard.  As he proceeded I understood how strong, and how natural, had been his desire for reticence.  On the mere score of credibility he must have greatly preferred to have kept his own counsel.  For my part I own, unreservedly, that I should have deemed the tale incredible had it been told me by Tom, Dick, or Harry, instead of by Paul Lessingham.

CHAPTER XXXIII

WHAT CAME OF LOOKING THROUGH A LATTICE

He began in accents which halted not a little.  By degrees his voice grew firmer.  Words came from him with greater fluency.

’I am not yet forty.  So when I tell you that twenty years ago I was a mere youth I am stating what is a sufficiently obvious truth.  It is twenty years ago since the events of which I am going to speak transpired.

’I lost both my parents when I was quite a lad, and by their death I was left in a position in which I was, to an unusual extent in one so young, my own master.  I was ever of a rambling turn of mind, and when, at the mature age of eighteen, I left school, I decided that I should learn more from travel than from sojourn at a university.  So, since there was no one to say me nay, instead of going either to Oxford or Cambridge, I went abroad.  After a few months I found myself in Egypt,—­I was down with fever at Shepheard’s Hotel in Cairo.  I had caught it by drinking polluted water during an excursion with some Bedouins to Palmyra.

’When the fever had left me I went out one night into the town in search of amusement.  I went, unaccompanied, into the native quarter, not a wise thing to do, especially at night, but at eighteen one is not always wise, and I was weary of the monotony of the sick-room, and eager for something which had in it a spice of adventure, I found myself in a street which I have reason to believe is no longer existing.  It had a French name, and was called the Rue de Rabagas,—­I saw the name on the corner as I turned into it, and it has left an impress on the tablets of my memory which is never likely to be obliterated.

’It was a narrow street, and, of course, a dirty one, ill-lit, and, apparently, at the moment of my appearance, deserted.  I had gone, perhaps, half-way down its tortuous length, blundering more than once into the kennel, wondering what fantastic whim had brought me into such unsavoury quarters, and what would happen to me if, as seemed extremely possible, I lost my way.  On a sudden my ears were saluted by sounds which proceeded from a house which I was passing,—­sounds of music and of singing.

’I paused.  I stood awhile to listen.

’There was an open window on my right, which was screened by latticed blinds.  From the room which was behind these blinds the sounds were coming.  Someone was singing, accompanied by an instrument resembling a guitar,—­singing uncommonly well.’