“I could not, Miss Margaret,” pleaded the secretary. “It would have meant too long an explanation. You will understand when you meet the man who lives here.”
“Henri Zayata?”
“Yes. I think, Miss Margaret,” the secretary said smilingly, “that you would prefer to know that I have been here — now that you have seen the place.”
“It’s uncanny,” said Margaret, in a low whisper. “It’s so frightfully uncanny — and very wonderful. I like it, Larkin. Yet it fills me with awe.”
“It has that effect,” replied Larkin, “but I think you will understand—”
He did not complete the sentence. The servant had returned. He was bowing low, indicating that the visitors should enter the gateway to the right — the barrier being wide open. Larkin turned to Margaret.
The girl walked to the doorway. She passed through it and stopped, her eyes wide with wonder.
The marvelous hallway was trivial, compared to the room which she had entered. The apartment was a marvel of Oriental splendor.
Gorgeous golden cloth adorned the walls. Priceless bits of statuary stood in abundance. Wonderful cushions lay everywhere upon the floor.
The rug beneath the girl’s feet seemed inches thick. From a brazen burner, a curling thread of incense wound upward toward the ceiling. The glory of the place was overwhelming. Margaret stood entranced.
Her gaze traveled everywhere. But at last it centered on the principal spot of the room — a divan in the farther corner. There, reclining in state, was a man of dark complexion. The divan was a sort of bed.
The man was sitting up, beneath a pile of robes. He wore an Oriental jacket that sparkled with emeralds, set upon red velvet. His head was covered with a mass of thick, black hair. His sallow cheeks were clean shaven.
THE man possessed a handsomeness of countenance that attracted the girl instantly. As his head inclined in a slight bow, Margaret lost all sense of her surroundings. She could see only the divan and its occupant.
The man held out a jeweled hand and indicated a pile of gold-covered cushions that made a chair beside him. Understanding the motion, Margaret advanced and sat beside the couch. She extended her own hand. The man received it with a friendly clasp.
“You are Henri Zayata?” questioned the girl.
“Yes.” The reply came in a smooth tone. “You are Miss Glendenning.”
“Margaret Glendenning.”
“Margaret,” replied the man with a smile.
“You are Robert Buchanan’s friend?” asked the girl, staring toward the man.
“Yes.”
Margaret’s eyes met those of Henri Zayata. The result was immediate fascination. The girl had never seen such eyes.
They were dark, yet it was impossible to determine their hue. Beneath the soft light of the room — light that came from invisible lamps — Zayata’s eyes were puzzling. Only their expression was constant, and they seemed to invite confidence. Before that gaze, Margaret Glendenning felt a sympathy and understanding that she had never before known.
“I am glad that you have come here, Margaret,” said the man in his soft tone. “I have long wished to see you. In fact, I have anticipated your visit. I want you to remember it.”
He looked across the room. Margaret, released from his fascinating stare, followed his gaze. Henri Zayata clapped his hands, and the turbaned servant advanced, bowing as he came. In his hands he held a small golden box.
He tendered it to Zayata, who, in turn, placed it in Margaret’s hands. The girl gasped as she looked at the beautiful design of the box. She realized that it was Zayata’s gift to her, and she raised her head to express her gratitude for his kindness.
“Open it!” said Zayata.
Margaret lifted the lid of the box. Her lips opened as she saw what was within. The box contained a ring, upon which was mounted an exquisite emerald — a stone of wonderful brilliance and of great value.
“Place it on your finger,” suggested Zayata.
He did not wait for the girl to act. Reaching forward, he gently removed the box from her hands and set it in her lap. He then slid the ring on the little finger of the girl’s left hand.
Margaret sighed as she saw how pitifully her diamond engagement ring contrasted with this gorgeous gift. For she was wearing the token which Robert Buchanan had given her months before — she always wore it when her uncle did not know.
“But — but” — Margaret was stammering — “I can’t accept — such a wonderful gift—”
“It is a trifle,” declared Zayata. “You have gone to a great deal of trouble paying me this visit. I want you to feel that you have been rewarded.”
THE girl made no further protest. Somehow, she seemed in a new world. It was like a dream from the “Arabian Nights” and she seemed incapable of making any effort of her own accord.
Before she knew it, she was speaking to Zayata, pouring out thoughts that she had intended not to say.
“Robert told me that you were an invalid,” was her sympathetic statement.
Zayata nodded solemnly; then smiled. “My arms and hands” — he outstretched them as he spoke — “are well. But I am virtually helpless, otherwise.”
“It is too bad,” commented the girl sadly.
“Too bad?” questioned Zayata. “Not at all — when I can forget. Forget — as I am forgetting now. How could one think of troubles with you in view?”
The girl smiled. There was a sincerity in Zayata’s tone that enabled her to accept his comments without objection.
The exotic atmosphere of this amazing room seemed to have enveloped her. All was new and wonderful even to the odd fragrance of the incense.
Time passed. Margaret found herself talking of many things — of her worries during the past months; of the hopes that she had lost.
The dreary appointments of her uncle’s home seemed miserable. This place was heaven in comparison. She said so, and Henri Zayata smiled.
The girl had no idea how long she had remained. At times she was conscious of Larkin’s presence. The secretary had seated himself at the foot of the couch. But on other occasions, he was gone — she did not know where, and she did not care.
Coming here had seemed an ordeal. Leaving seemed impossible. At length, she noticed Larkin returning. The fact that brought it to her attention was Henri Zayata’s gaze. The man on the divan was looking toward Larkin. Margaret saw the secretary nod slowly.
“Margaret” — it was Zayata speaking — “I am glad that you have talked to me tonight. You have been unhappy. So have I. In that, we understand one another.”
“Your trials must have been greater than mine,” Margaret sympathized.
“No. For mine have passed; while yours are yet to come. I have always had a home — and wealth.”
“I have had a home and comfort,” the girl said slowly.
“You have had a home,” corrected Zayata. “But there are reasons why you should not return to it.”
He clapped his hands, and the servant came forward.
“This is Chandra,” declared Zayata. “He is a Burmese. He will obey your commands as he obeys mine. Chandra — open the door of the guest suite!”
Bowing, Chandra advanced to the wall. He pressed an unseen lever. A space opened, and Margaret found herself viewing a miniature apartment every bit as wonderful as the room in which she was sitting.
She arose and went to the entrance. She looked in admiration at the luxurious, comfortable furnishings the beautiful divan, the ornate decorations.
HENRI ZAYATA was speaking. The girl returned to the cushioned seat. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that the door of the suite was still open.
“Do you like it?” questioned Zayata.
“It is wonderful!” exclaimed the girl.