Serial Story: THE RIDDLE OF SIWA

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 66, Issue 86, 22 January 1946, Page 6

Serial Story: THE RIDDLE OF SIWA

(Copyright).

BY DIXON KAYE.

CHAPTER 11. THE SHEIK Seymour removed tlie chibouk from his mouth after a long silence, and commenced to speak to his companion sitting cross-legged on the divan by his side. “Ibrahim,” he said, “you are a Sheik of great experience and trustworthiness.” The Sheik put out his hands deprecatingly. “Sir,” he replied, “I am your boy.” (Servant). Seymour laughed, “1 don’t think I could afford such an expensive boy—a distinguished Sheik commanding a thousand Arabs!” The Sheik modestly demurred. “Not so many,” he said, “at first; perhaps, a thousand later.” Seymour shifted his position and got nearer to the Sheik; he took a sip of the thick, black coffee in the little cup before him. “Ibrahim,’ he continued, “I have asked you to come here to give me advice upon a very important matter.” The Sheik bowed his handsome head and listened attentively. With his clean-cut profile and pointed beard with just a touch of brown in it, and hazel eyes, he could have passed easily for a European. “I am deeply in love,” proceeded Seymour, “with a very beautiful young lady.” Ibrahim’s kindly face was all sympathy at the announcement; he believed in love himself. “I have no doubt,” he said, using his Arabic imagery, “that this young lady is as beautiful as one of the wives of the Prophet.” With a vision of Eva’s blue eyes and loveliness before him, Seymour doubted whether Mahomet had ever seen such beauty. “But, Ibrahim,” he continued. “I have asked you to come to this Divan and drink a cup of coffee with me and smoke a pipe, that I may ask your advice on a matter of great moment to me.” Ibrahim bowed his head and Seymour told him in a few words what he had heard from Eva, concealing her name; of her being followed in the streets by the man and the woman, and of the unaccountable disappearance of the latter within the walls of the Citadel. “Tell me,” Sheik,” asked Seymour, “what do you think of it all?” Ibrahim remained silent for some moments in deep thought. “Bismallah!” he exclaimed presently, “this is a matter of great import. This lady, beautiful as a houri, has inspired love in the breast of some man perhaps of great riches, who would rob you of her.” Seymour’s face lowered as he listened to him, “It will be a bad day for that man if he tries to,” he commented. The Sheik slightly shrugged his shoulders, but said nothing. Sitting there cross-legged among the cushions on the flat, shelf-like seat which ran round the room, the two looked an incongruous pair: the one, a good type of modern Englishman, in his khaki-drill suit, the other, the embodiment of all that was wild and savage—an Arab Chief of the Desert “You remember thqjt day, Sheik, continued Seymour, “when we first met in the Desert?" “Remember it!" replied the Arab. “I shall never forget it. You saved my life!” t t) “I admit you were in a tight corner, said the Englishman, “with three against you, but you were holding vour own very well when I came up." “Those three bandits,” replied the Ibrahim, “would have killed me if they could, and have buried my body in the sand. It was my gold they wanted, which I carried in my belt.” “Was it not unwise of you to travel alone with so much money with you?” Seymour asked.

‘‘One has to take risks sometimes,” was the answer, “but those villains had followed me—they knew that I had treasure with me.” “Then it was perhaps just as well that I turned up,” added Seymour. “It. was lucky that I took that evening ride from the new railway line that I was building. But I remind you of that incident for this reason. I want your advice concerning the lady I love; I want you to tell me how best to protect her.” The Sheik answered at once. “It would be better for this beautiful lady to leave Cairo and go back to her own country.” Seymour shook his head. “She‘will not go,” he answered. “She will not leave her father, Sir Bertram Manders.” “Sir Bertram Manders!” exclaimed Ibrahim. “Then she is the daughter of the groat man who lives in the Citadel ?” “Yes,” the other replied. “And do you think she is safe in the Citadel?” The Sheik answered dubiously. “There are few who know the secrets of the Citadel.” “And do you know them?” asked Seymour. The Sheik looked straight before him. “Yes I know them,” he answered. “And is it possible for you to enter the Citadel without passing the guards was the next question. “Yes, very easily,” was Ibrahim’s reply. “And there is an underground lake beneath the Citadel?” Seymour continued. “Yes a. vast lake, and its waters are as black as those within the dark abode of the accursed Shitan. I, who speak, have beheld them.” “Then there must be vast passages beneath the Citadel,” commented Seymour. The Sheik bent his head. “Yes, a subterranean city, in which a body of a thousand soldiers could be easily hidden,” he replied. Seymour lost colour, and a hard look came into his face. “And in which a young lady might be hidden and heard of no more?” he asked. j “That is so,” answered the Sheik. “And many have so disappeared. No one knows what treasures the underworld of the Citadel has held. Nobody knows all the treasures which lie hidden there now. It is said that the Mamelukes hid their treasure there, but as they were all killed in that deep road which leads up to the Citadel, the secret of their treasure died and lies buried with them.” (To be continued).