Page:Alien Souls by Achmed Abdullah (1922).djvu/152

Krelekian's nerves trembled like piano wires under the hammer of the keys.

"Never mind—what?" he cried in a cracked voice; and the Kurd, like one making a sudden, disagreeable resolution, leaned across the table and spoke in a low voice.

"I—" he began, and was silent again.

"What? What?"

"I— Ah! Ullah Karim!"

Mohammed Yar was evidently embarrassed; just as evidently sorry for his host, terribly sorry. Then, as if obeying an overwhelming inner force, he picked up Krelekian's flabby hand where it rested twitching and nervous among the brass-encased coffee-cups, held it high, and examined it intently, as on his first visit.

"Zado!" he murmured, in a low, choked voice. "Zado—dear, dear friend—"

He was silent. He dropped the trembling hand as if it were red-glowing charcoal. He rose very hurriedly and rushed through the shop, out to the side walk, Krelekian close on his heels and clutching his arm.

"No, no!" whispered Mohammed Yar, still in that same choked voice. "Do not ask me. Perhaps I am mistaken—and if I am mistaken and should tell you, you would never forgive me! Perhaps I am mistaken. I must be mistaken … yes, yes … I know I am mistaken!"—and he ran down the street, never heeding the Armenian's protests to come back, to explain.

Perhaps it was a coincidence that late that same evening the Kurd, helping the Arab doctor, received a special-delivery letter with the mark of a West Side downtown post-office; a letter perfumed with attar of