Greenmantle by John Buchan (snow like ashes series .txt) 📕

the coming of a prophet, and I found that the select of the faith spoke of the new revelation in terms of it. The curious thing is that in that tale the prophet is aided by one of the few women who play much part in the hagiology of Islam. That is the point of the tale, and it is partly a jest, but mainly a religious mystery. The prophet, too, is not called Emerald.”

“I know,” I said; “he is called Greenmantle.”

Sandy scrambled to his feet, letting his pipe drop in the fireplace.

“Now how on earth did you find out that?” he cried.

Then I told them of Stumm and Gaudian and the whispered words I had not been meant to hear. Blenkiron was giving me the benefit of a steady stare, unusual from one who seemed always to have his eyes abstracted, and Sandy had taken to ranging up and down the room.

“Germany’s in the heart of the plan. That is what I always thought. If we’re to find the Kaaba-i-hurriyeh it is no good fossicking among the Committee or in the Turkish provinces. The secret’s in Germany. Dick, you should not have crossed the Danube.”

“That’s what I half feared,” I said. “But on the other hand it is obvious that the thing must come east, and sooner rather than later. I take it they can’t afford to delay too long before they deliver the goods. If we can stick it out here we must hit the trail⁠ ⁠… I’ve got another bit of evidence. I have solved Harry Bullivant’s third puzzle.”

Sandy’s eyes were very bright and I had an audience on wires.

“Did you say that in the tale of Kasredin a woman is the ally of the prophet?”

“Yes,” said Sandy; “what of that?”

“Only that the same thing is true of Greenmantle. I can give you her name.”

I fetched a piece of paper and a pencil from Blenkiron’s desk and handed it to Sandy.

“Write down Harry Bullivant’s third word.”

He promptly wrote down “v. I.”

Then I told them of the other name Stumm and Gaudian had spoken. I told of my discovery as I lay in the woodman’s cottage.

“The ‘I’ is not the letter of the alphabet, but the numeral. The name is Von Einem⁠—Hilda von Einem.”

“Good old Harry,” said Sandy softly. “He was a dashed clever chap. Hilda von Einem? Who and where is she? for if we find her we have done the trick.”

Then Blenkiron spoke. “I reckon I can put you wise on that, gentlemen,” he said. “I saw her no later than yesterday. She is a lovely lady. She happens also to be the owner of this house.”

Both Sandy and I began to laugh. It was too comic to have stumbled across Europe and lighted on the very headquarters of the puzzle we had set out to unriddle.

But Blenkiron did not laugh. At the mention of Hilda von Einem he had suddenly become very solemn, and the sight of his face pulled me up short.

“I don’t like it, gentlemen,” he said. “I would rather you had mentioned any other name on God’s earth. I haven’t been long in this city, but I have been long enough to size up the various political bosses. They haven’t much to them. I reckon they wouldn’t stand up against what we could show them in the U-nited States. But I have met the Frau von Einem, and that lady’s a very different proposition. The man that will understand her has got to take a biggish size in hats.”

“Who is she?” I asked.

“Why, that is just what I can’t tell you. She was a great excavator of Babylonish and Hittite ruins, and she married a diplomat who went to glory three years back. It isn’t what she has been, but what she is, and that’s a mighty clever woman.”

Blenkiron’s respect did not depress me. I felt as if at last we had got our job narrowed to a decent compass, for I had hated casting about in the dark. I asked where she lived.

“That I don’t know,” said Blenkiron. “You won’t find people unduly anxious to gratify your natural curiosity about Frau von Einem.”

“I can find that out,” said Sandy. “That’s the advantage of having a push like mine. Meantime, I’ve got to clear, for my day’s work isn’t finished. Dick, you and Peter must go to bed at once.”

“Why?” I asked in amazement. Sandy spoke like a medical adviser.

“Because I want your clothes⁠—the things you’ve got on now. I’ll take them off with me and you’ll never see them again.”

“You’ve a queer taste in souvenirs,” I said.

“Say rather the Turkish police. The current in the Bosporus is pretty strong, and these sad relics of two misguided Dutchmen will be washed up tomorrow about Seraglio Point. In this game you must drop the curtain neat and pat at the end of each Scene, if you don’t want trouble later with the missing heir and the family lawyer.”

XIII I Move in Good Society

I walked out of that house next morning with Blenkiron’s arm in mine, a different being from the friendless creature who had looked vainly the day before for sanctuary. To begin with, I was splendidly dressed. I had a navy-blue suit with square padded shoulders, a neat black bow-tie, shoes with a hump at the toe, and a brown bowler. Over that I wore a greatcoat lined with wolf fur. I had a smart malacca cane, and one of Blenkiron’s cigars in my mouth. Peter had been made to trim his beard, and, dressed in unassuming pepper-and-salt, looked with his docile eyes and quiet voice a very respectable servant. Old Blenkiron had done the job in style, for, if you’ll believe it, he had brought the clothes all the way from London. I realized now why he and Sandy had been fossicking in my wardrobe. Peter’s suit had been of Sandy’s procuring, and it was not the fit of mine. I