Behind him surged those who bore the victim.

"It's one of the lascars!"

"No--an Egyptian!"

"It was a porter--?"

"What is it--?"

"Someone been stabbed!"

"Where's the doctor?"

"Stand away there, if you please!"

That was a ship's officer; and the voice of authority served to
quell the disturbance. Through a lane walled with craning heads
they bore the insensible man. Ahmadeen was at my elbow.

"A Copt," he said softly. "Poor devil!" I turned to him. There
was a queer expression on his lean, clean-shaven, bronze face.

"Good God!" I said. "His hand has been cut off!"

That was the fact of the matter. And no one knew who was
responsible for the atrocity. And no one knew what had become of
the severed hand! I wasted not a moment in linking up the story.
The pressman within me acted automatically.