I could not help thinking that it more closely resembled insanity than either; but since Bréton had made no reference to the wearer of the black turban, I experienced less anxiety respecting his physical than his mental welfare.
Three days later there was a dramatic development. Drifting idly into Bréton's studio one morning I found him pacing the place in despair and glaring at his unfinished canvas like a man distraught.
"Gone!" he replied. "She disappeared yesterday and I can find no trace of her."
"Surely the excellent Suleyman, proprietor of the dancing establishment, can assist you?"
"I tell you," cried Bréton savagely, "that she has disappeared. No one knows what has become of her."
I looked at him in dismay. He presented a mournful spectacle. He was unshaven and his dark hair was wildly disordered. His despair was more acute than I should have supposed possible in the circumstances; and I concluded that his interest in Yâsmîna was deeper than I had assumed or that I was incapable of comprehending the artistic temperament. I suppose the Gallic blood in him had something to do with it, but I was unspeakably distressed to observe that the man was on the verge of tears.
Consolation was impossible, and I left him pacing his empty studio distractedly. That night at an unearthly hour, long after I had retired to my own apartments, he came to Shepheard's. Being shown into my room, and the servant having departed--
"Yâsmîna is dead!" he burst out, standing there, a disheveled figure, just within the doorway.
"What!" I exclaimed, standing up from the table at which I had been writing and confronting him. "Dead? Do you mean----"
"He has murdered her!" said Bréton, in a dull monotonous voice--"that fiend of whom you warned me."
I was appalled; for I had been utterly unprepared for such a tragedy.
"No one discovered her; she will never be discovered! He has buried her body in some secret spot in the desert."
My amazement grew with every word that he uttered, and presently--
"Then how in Heaven's name did you learn of her murder?" I asked.
Felix Bréton, who had begun to pace up and down the room, a truly pitiable figure, paused and looked at me wildly.
"You will think that I am mad, Kernaby," he said; "but I must tell you--I must tell someone. I could see that you were incredulous when I spoke to you of reincarnation, but I was right, Kernaby, I was right! Either that or my reason is deserting me."