“But — I have been wondering, Henri. Perhaps it would be best for me to go back — back with my uncle—”
“You cannot go back, at present,” said Zayata firmly. “There is no way—”
“But when Larkin comes—”
“Larkin will not be here for a long time.”
“Why?”
“I shall tell you,” began Zayata; then he paused as Chandra entered. The Burmese was carrying the slate that he had shown to Flash Donegan.
Margaret watched curiously as Zayata took the slate and carefully wiped off the message with a small sponge that the servant gave him. She had seen Zayata write that message — after he had read a note which Chandra had brought.
But Zayata had kept the slate turned so that Margaret had not seen the message. It all seemed curious, but Zayata had volunteered no explanation, so Margaret did not ask for one.
“Chandra,” said Zayata, “bring me those newspapers.”
The servant bowed and went to a table in the corner of the room. He lifted its toplike lid and brought out some newspapers. He carried them to Zayata, who kept the front pages toward himself.
Then, Zayata selected one of the journals and gave it to Margaret. The girl gasped when she read the headlines.
The newspaper told of the arrest of her uncle. It spoke of him as a fiend. Clinton Glendenning was branded as the slayer of two men — Charles Blefken and Don Hasbrouck.
Wildly, the girl’s eyes ran down the columns. A paragraph caught her attention. It said:
The finding of Hasbrouck’s body has revealed Clinton Glendenning as an archfiend. But the proof that is strongest against the retired manufacturer is the evidence brought forth by Detective Joe Cardona. Glendenning’s thumb prints are identical with the marks discovered on the throat of Charles Blefken. A comparison of photostatic reproductions has left no possible doubt.
The testimony of Larkin has been of immense value to the police. Larkin declared that on the night when Hasbrouck last visited Glendenning’s home, the old man retired to his bedroom before the sleuth departed. Larkin remained upstairs while Hasbrouck left.
It is believed that the old man descended to the ground floor by his interior stairs and slew Hasbrouck, strangling him with those iron hands that have surprised the police by their power.
Detective Cardona would not reveal the contents of Glendenning’s diaries. He said that he had learned of their existence through Larkin, who had noted the old man making secret entries in a book. Larkin did not know where the diaries were kept.
Cardona discovered them after a long search and now has them at headquarters; The star detective states that the diaries are in Glendenning’s handwriting and that they give information which may lead to the discovery of other crimes.
Cardona, although noncommittal, indicated that Robert Buchanan may have been one of the strangle-fiend’s victims. He would say nothing, however, about the disappearance of Glendenning’s niece.
Margaret dropped the newspaper. She buried her face in her hands, and began to weep convulsively. Zayata, consoling, put his arm about her, and the girl leaned on the man’s shoulder while she cried.
At last, her weeping ended, she looked at her new-found friend with tear-dimmed eyes. Zayata’s kindliness was encouraging. The girl tried to smile. Then she closed her eyes and rested her head snugly upon the comforting arm.
DURING the silence that followed, Chandra approached and asked a question in a foreign tongue.
“No one else is coming,” said Zayata. “close the lift, and raise it, Chandra.”
Chandra went out into the hallway. Zayata spoke softly to Margaret:
“You are unhappy,” he said soothingly. “Unhappy, aren’t you — Margaret?”
“Yes,” answered the girl dreamily. “But, somehow, unhappiness cannot last long — here.”
“You will remain?”
“I must remain for a while — but then—”
“What then?” Zayata asked.
“I must go, although—”
“Why should you ever leave?” The girl did not reply.
“Why should you ever leave here, Margaret?” persisted the man. “Why should you ever leave the one — who loves you?”
The girl’s eyes opened wide.
“Yes, Margaret, I love you,” came Zayata’s voice. “I want you to remain here always here with me—”
The girl’s lips tightened. Despite the alluring sound of Henri Zayata’s voice, the man’s words worried her. The recollection of Robert Buchanan seemed to govern her.
“Do you love me, Margaret?” was Zayata’s question.
“I cannot tell,” gasped the girl. “Please, Henri — please let me consider. I shall stay here — for a little while — but then—”
“Then you will answer me?”
“Yes.”
“How soon?” Zayata insisted.
The girl pondered. She had detected an eagerness in the man’s voice, and it made her feel a sudden lack of security.
“In three days,” said Margaret. “Three nights from now, Henri. Then I shall tell you — whether I choose to leave, or to stay here, always—”
“You promise to have your answer then?”
“I promise!”
The girl raised her head and gently pressed back Zayata’s arm. The man smiled, and waved his hand toward the door that led to the hallway.
“You have seen only part of this place,” he declared. “Why not see more of it — since it may be yours — three days from now?
“Chandra!” The man clapped his hands. “Show Miss Glendenning the temple. I am sorry, Margaret” — his voice was rueful — “that I cannot accompany you.”
The man’s reference to his crippled condition excited the girl’s sympathy. She was about to make a kindly reply when she noticed that Zayata was reclining with his eyes closed. Evidently he was tired. Chandra bowed. Margaret arose and followed the Burmese.
He led her into the hallway. He crossed and began to bow before a brazen door that glowed between crimson curtains. It must be a ceremony, Margaret thought.
The door made her think of that entrance at the end of the hall — the carved oaken barrier that bore the lion’s head. She looked in that direction. To her amazement, she saw the door sliding shut!
Could it have been fancy — the door moving of its own accord? The girl noticed a shadowy blackness beside the door, near a huge, dark vase. Then she heard Chandra speak.
She looked ahead and forgot the closing door when she saw the sight before her.
The brass gate was open, and beyond was a most magnificent room — a tiny temple of most fantastic appearance. All the other gorgeous apartments of Henri Zayata’s home faded into insignificance when compared to this one.
Softly, the girl stole forward. Chandra was beside her as she found her way between piles of cushions and approached a thronelike chair at the far end of the room.
“It is the throne of Charn,” said the Burmese, in a whisper. “Do not touch it.”
MARGARET looked at the golden carvings of the throne. Then she noticed a huge upright box at the right of the room. It looked like a mummy case. Upon it was the carved representation of a woman’s face — a solemn face with staring eyes.
“The home of Kali,” whispered the Burmese in an awed tone. Margaret noted that the huge case was girded with bands of a silver metal; these were solid bars.
“It shall not be opened,” said Chandra solemnly. “Never — until — ” His voice became a succession of low words in his native tongue.
“Come,” said Chandra, as Margaret still stared at the marvelous furnishings of the sanctuary. “Come! The master does not wish us to stay here long.”