"Hassan has been too clever for us!" said the inspector. "But--
what in God's name did that awful screaming mean?"

I had a theory, but I did not advance it then.

It was not until nearly dawn that my theory, and Bristol's, regarding
the clutch arrangement, both were confirmed. For close under the
railings which abut on Orpington Square, in a pool of blood we found
just such an instrument as Bristol had described.

And still clutching it was a pallid and ghastly shrunken hand that
had been severed from above the wrist!

"Merciful God!" whispered the inspector--"look at the opal ring on
the finger! Look at the bandage where he cut himself on the
broken window-glass that first night, when Mr. Mostyn disturbed him.
It wasn't the Hashishin who stole the thing . . . . It's Earl
Dexter's hand!"

No one spoke for a moment. Then--

"Which of them has--" began Mostyn huskily.

"The slipper of the Prophet?" interrupted Bristol. "I wonder if we
shall ever know?"




CHAPTER XV