Stolen Souls

Searching further, I discovered a full-length cabinet photograph, taken in Algiers. It was of Valerie dressed as the Sheikh’s daughter, with the exception that the adjar, which had hidden the Arab girl’s face, had been removed.

In my surprise I almost forgot the terrible tragedy.

Continuing the investigation of the odds and ends in her private drawer, I found an Arab head ornament and several bracelets. The pattern of the crescent-shaped sequins I recognised as the same as those worn by the mysterious Halima.

These discoveries, combined with the contents of the letters which I hastily scanned, left no doubt that Halima and Valerie were the same person; and, further, that Hassan, the wealthy Sheikh of the Ahamellen, who had a house at Douéra, was really her father; and that Monsieur de Noirville had brought her up, and educated her to the ways of civilised society.

When I had left for Algeria, it had been her caprice to follow me, and rejoin her people.

She had saved my life, yet I had killed her.

But though so fair, she was false —false!

Bah! How infernally bitter this cognac is!

One more gulp, and my body and soul will have parted. I shall be at rest.

Ah, well! Here’s health to the cursed scoundrel who has wrecked my life. The glass is drained. The sediment was like gall.

How it burns!

I – I go. I trouble no one longer. Au revoir. Adieu!