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It terminated as Smith had foreseen at a wharf gate some six feet to
the right of our post. Piled up in the lane beneath us, against the
warehouse door, was a stack of empty casks. Beyond, over the way, was
a kind of ramshackle building that had possibly been a dwelling-house
at some time. Bills were stuck in the ground-floor window indicating
that the three floors were to let as offices; so much was discernible
in that reflected moonlight.
I could hear the tide, lapping upon the wharf, could feel the chill
from the river and hear the vague noises which, night nor day, never
cease upon the great commercial waterway.
"Down!" whispered Smith. "Make no noise! I suspected it. They heard
the car following!"
I obeyed, clutching at him for support; for I was suddenly dizzy, and
my heart was leaping wildly--furiously.
"You saw her?" he whispered.
Saw her! yes, I had seen her! And my poor dream-world was toppling
about me, its cities, ashes and its fairness, dust.
Peering from the window, her great eyes wondrous in the moonlight and
her red lips parted, hair gleaming like burnished foam and her anxious
gaze set upon the corner of the lane--was Karamaneh . . . Karamaneh
whom once we had rescued from the house of this fiendish Chinese
doctor; Karamaneh who had been our ally; in fruitless quest of
whom,--when, too late, I realized how empty my life was become--I had
wasted what little of the world's goods I possessed;--Karamaneh!
"Poor old Petrie," murmured Smith--"I knew, but I hadn't the heart--He
has her again--God knows by what chains he holds her. But she's only a
woman, old boy, and women are very much alike--very much alike from
Charing Cross to Pagoda Road."
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