The two old men, long since relegated to a somewhat self-imposed oblivion, on a certain night discussed, as usual, the affairs of the household in the privacy of their room on the third floor. Not, however, without first convincing themselves that the shadowy Ranjab was nowhere within range of their croaking undertones. From the proscribed regions downstairs came the faint sounds of a piano and the intermittent chatter of many voices. Someone was playing “La Paloma.”

These new days were not like the old ones. Once they had enjoyed, even commanded, the full freedom of the house. It had been their privilege, their prerogative, to enter into every social undertaking that was planned. They had come to regard themselves as hosts, or, at the very least, guests of honour on such occasions.

Not that the occasions were many where guests came to be entertained by James Brood of old, but it seemed to be an accepted and quite agreeable duty of theirs to convince the infrequent visitors that Brood's house was really quite a jolly place, and that it would pay them to drop in oftener. They had a joyous way of lifting the responsibility of conversation from everyone else; and, be it said to their credit, there was no subject on which they couldn't talk with decision and fluency, whether they knew anything about it or not.

And nowadays it was different. They were not permitted to appear when guests were in the house. The sumptuous dinners, of which they heard something from the servants, were no longer graced by their presence. They were amazed, and not a little irritated, to learn, by listening at the head of the stairs, that the unfortunate guests, whoever they were, always seemed to be enjoying themselves. They couldn't understand how such a condition was possible.

They dined, to dignify the function somewhat, at least an hour before the guests arrived, and then shuffled off to their little back room, where they affected cribbage but indulged in something a great deal more acrimonious. They said many harsh things about the new mistress of the house. They could not understand what had come over James Brood. There was a time, said they, when no one could have led him around by the nose, and now he was as spineless as an angleworm.

On nights when guests were expected they were not permitted to have a drop of anything to drink, Mrs Brood declaring that she could not afford to run the risk of having them appear in the drawing-room despite the edict. They also had a habit of singing rather boisterously when intoxicated, something about a girl in Bombay; or, when especially happy, about a couple of ladies in Hottentot land who didn't mind the heat.

It was a matter of discretion, therefore, to lock up the spirits, and, after a fashion, to lock up the old gentlemen as well.

As a concession they were at liberty to invade the “retreat,” and to make themselves at home among the relics. Guests were seldom, if ever, taken up to Brood's room. Only the most intimate of friends were admitted. Even the jade room, with all of its priceless treasures, was closed to “outsiders,” for Brood had the idea that people as a rule did not possess a great amount of intelligence. So it was usually quite safe to allow Mr Dawes and Mr Riggs to run loose in the study, with the understanding, of course, that they were not to venture beyond the top of the stairs, and were not to smoke pipes.

Brood had been working rather steadily at his journal during the past two or three weeks. He had reached a point in the history where his own memory was somewhat vague, and had been obliged to call upon his old comrades to supply the facts. For several nights they had sat with him, going over the scenes connected with their earliest acquaintance; those black days in Calcutta.

Lydia had brought over her father's notes and certain transcripts of letters he had written to her mother before their marriage. The four of them were putting these notes and narratives into chronological order. Brood, after three months of married life and frivolity, suddenly had decided to devote himself almost entirely to the completion of the journal.

He denied himself the theatre, the opera, and kindred features of the passing show, and, as he preferred to entertain rather than to be entertained, seldom found it necessary to go into the homes of other people. Yvonne made no protest. She merely pressed Frederic into service as an escort when she desired to go about, and thought nothing of it. Whatever James Brood's views of this arrangement were, he appeared to accept it good-naturedly.

But the lines had returned to the corners of his mouth and the old, hard look to his eyes. And there were times when he spoke harshly to his son; times when he purposely humbled him in the presence of others without apparent reason.

On this particular night Yvonne had asked a few people in for dinner. They were people whom Brood liked especially well, but who did not appeal to her at all. As a matter of fact, they bored her. Yet she was happy in pleasing him. When she told him that they were coming he favoured her with a dry, rather impersonal smile and asked, with whimsical good humour, why she chose to punish herself for the sins of his youth.

She laid her cheek against his and purred. For a moment he held his breath. Then the fire in his blood leaped into flame. He clasped the slim, adorable body in his strong arms and crushed her against his breast. She kissed him, and he was again the fierce, eager, unsated lover. It was one of their wonderful, imperishable moments, moments that brought oblivion.

Then, as he frequently did of late, he held her off at arm's length and searched her velvety eyes with a gaze that seemed to drag the very secrets out of her soul. She went deathly white and shivered. He took his hands from her shoulders and smiled. She came back into his arms like a dumb thing seeking protection, and continued to tremble as if frightened.

When company was being entertained downstairs Mr Dawes and Mr Riggs, with a fidelity to convention that was almost pitiful, invariably donned their evening clothes. They considered themselves remotely connected with the festivities, and, that being the case, the least they could do was to “dress up.”

Moreover, they dressed with great care and deliberation. There was always the chance that they might be asked to come down; or, what was even more important, Mrs Brood might happen to encounter them in the upper hall, and in that event it was imperative that she should be made to realise how stupid she had been.

Usually at nine o'clock they strolled into the study and smoked one of Brood's cigars with the gusto of real guests. It was their habit to saunter about the room, inspecting the treasures with critical, appraising eyes, very much as if they had never seen them before. They even handled some of the familiar objects with an air of bewilderment that would have done credit to a Cook's tourist.

It was also a habit of theirs to try the doors of a large teakwood cabinet in one corner of the room. The doors were always locked, and they sighed with patient doggedness. Some time, they told themselves, Ranjab would forget to lock those doors, and then——

“Joe,” said Mr Dawes, after he had tried the doors on this particular occasion, “I made a terrible mistake in letting poor Jim get married again. I'll never forgive myself.” He had said this at least a hundred times during the past three months. Sometimes he cried over it.

“Danbury, old pal, you must not take all the blame for that. I am as much at fault as you, blast you!” Mr Riggs always ended his confession with an explosion that fairly withered his friend and gave the lie to his attempt at humility.

“That's right,” snapped Mr Dawes; “curse me for it!”

“Don't make so much noise.”

“If you were ten years younger I'd—I'd——” blustered Dawes.

“I wish Jack Desmond had lived,” mused the other, paying no attention to the belligerent. “He would have put a stop to this fool marriage.”

They sat down and pondered.

“If Jim had to marry someone, why didn't he marry right here at home?” demanded Dawes, turning fiercely on his friend.

“Because,” said Riggs, with significant solemnity, “he is in the habit of marrying away from home. Look at the first one. He married her, didn't he? And see what came of it. He ought to have had more sense the second time. But marrying men never do get any sense. They just marry, that's all.”

“Jim's getting mighty cranky of late,” ruminated Dawes, puffing away at his unlighted cigar. “It's a caution the way he snaps Freddy off these days. He—he hates that boy, Joe.”

“Sh—h! Not so loud!”

“Confound you, don't you know a whisper when you hear it?” demanded Dawes, who, in truth, had whispered.

Another potential silence.

“Freddy goes about with her a good deal more than he ought to,” said Riggs at last. “They're together two-thirds of the time. Why—why, he heels her like a trained dog. Playing the pianner morning, noon, and night, and out driving, and going to the theatre, and——”

“I've a notion to tell Jim he ought to put a stop to it,” said the other. “It makes me sick.”

“Jim'll do it without being told one o' these days, so you keep out of it. Say, have you noticed how piqued Lydia's looking these times? She's not the same girl, Dan; not the same girl. Something's wrong.” He shook his head gloomily.

“It's that dog-goned woman,” announced Dawes explosively, and then looked over his shoulder with apprehension. A sigh of relief escaped him.

“She's got no business coming in between Lydia and Freddy,” said Riggs. “Looks as though she's just set on busting it up. What can she possibly have against poor little Lydia? She's good enough for Freddy. Too good, by hokey! 'Specially when you stop to think.”

“Now don't begin gossiping,” warned Dawes, glaring at him. “You're as bad as an old woman.”

“Thinking ain't gossiping, confound you! If I wanted to gossip I'd up and say flatly that Jim Brood knows down in his soul that Freddy is no son of his. He——”

“You've never heard him say so, Joe.”

“No; but I can put two and two together. I'm no fool.”

“I'd advise you to shut up.”

“Oh, you would, would you?” with vast scorn. “I'd like to know who it was that talked to Mrs Desmond about it. Who put it into her head that Jim doubts——”

“Well, didn't she say I was a lying old busybody?” snapped Danbury triumphantly. “Didn't she call me down, eh? I'd like to know what more you could expect than that. Didn't she make me take back everything I said?”

“She did,” said Riggs with conviction. “And I believe she would have thrashed you if she'd been a man, just as she said she would. And didn't I advise her to do it, anyway, on the ground that you're an old woman and——”

“That's got nothing to do with the present case,” interrupted Dawes hastily. “What we ought to be thinking about now is how to get rid of this woman that's come in here to wreck our home. She's an interloper. She's a foreigner. She——”

“You must admit she treats us very politely,” said Riggs weakly.

“Certainly she does. She has to. If she tried to come any of her high-and-mighty—ahem! Yes, Joseph, I consider Mrs Brood the loveliest, most charming——”

“It was the wind blowing the curtain, Danbury,” said Riggs, reassuringly.

“As I was saying,” resumed his friend, “I'd tell her what I thought of her almighty quick if she got uppish with me. The trouble is, she's so darned careful what she says to my face. I've never seen anybody as sweet as she is when she's with a feller. That all goes to prove that she's sly and unnatural. No woman ever lived who could be sweet all the time and still be as God made her. Why, she even comes up here and tries to be sweet on that 'Great Gawd Budd' thing over there. I heard her ask Ranjab one day why he never prostrated himself before the image.”

“Well?” demanded Riggs, as the other paused.

“She didn't have sense enough to know that Ranjab is a Brahmin, a worshipper of Vishnu and Shiva. I also heard her say that you had been so drunk up here one night that a lady fainted when she saw you sprawled out on the couch. She thought you were dead.”

“I haven't been drunk in ten years! What's more, I don't remember ever having seen a strange woman in this room since I came here to visit Jim Brood, twelve years ago. She must be crazy.”

“She didn't say you saw the woman. She said the woman saw you,” said Dawes witheringly.

“No one ever thought of locking that cupboard until she came,” said Riggs, abruptly altering the trend of speech but not of thought. His gaze shifted to the cabinet. “Jim is like wax in her hands.”

“He has no right to forget those days in Calcutta, when we shared our grog with him. No, Joe, we're not good enough for him in these days. She has bewitched him, poor devil. I've stuck to him like a brother for twenty years—both of us have for that matter——”

“Like twin brothers,” amended Joseph.

“Exactly. We don't forget those old days in Tibet, Turkestan, the Congo, the Sahara——”

“I should say we don't! Who is really writing this book of his? Who supplies all the most important facts? Who—who—well, that's all. Who?”

“We do, old chap. But you'll find that we shan't have our names on the title-page. She'll see to that. She'll have us shunted off like a couple of deck-hands. Lydia can tell you how much of the material I have supplied. She knows, bless her heart. You furnished a lot, too, Joe, and John Desmond the rest.”

“Oh, Jim has done his share.”

“I'll admit he has done all of the writing. I don't pose as a literary man.”

“Seems to me he's sticking closer to the work than ever before,” mused Riggs. “We ought to finish it by spring, the way we're going now.”

“I still say, however, that he ought to put a stop to it.”

“Stop to what?”

“Her running around with Freddy. What else?”

“No harm in it, is there?”

“No; I suppose not,” the other reflected. “Still they're pretty young, you know. Besides, she's French.”

“So was Joan of Arc,” said his friend in rebuttal.

Mr Dawes leaned a little closer.

“I wonder how Mrs Desmond likes having her over there playing the piano every afternoon with Freddy, while Lydia's over here copying things for Jim and working her poor little head off. Ever stop to think about that?”

“I think about it all the time. And, by thunder, I'm not the only one who does, either. Jim thinks a good deal, and so does Lydia. It's a darned——”

Mr Riggs happened to look up at that instant. Ranjab was standing in front of him, his arms folded across his breast, in the habitual pose of the Hindu who waits. The man was dressed in the costume of a high-caste Brahmin; the commonplace garments of the Occident had been laid aside, and in their place were the vivid, dazzling colours of Ind, from the bejewelled sandals to the turban which crowned his swarthy brow and gleamed with rubies and sapphires uncounted.

Mr Riggs's mouth remained open as he stared blankly at this ghost of another day. Not since the old days in India had he seen Ranjab in native garb, and even then he was far from being the resplendent creature of to-night, for Ranjab in his home land was a poor man and without distinction.

“Am I awake?” exclaimed Mr Riggs in such an awful voice that Mr Dawes gave over staring at the cabinet and favoured him with an impatient kick on the ankle.

“I guess that'll wake you up if——” and then he saw the Hindu. “The Ranjab!”

Ranjab was smiling, and when he smiled his dark face was a joy to behold. His white teeth gleamed and his sometime unfeeling eyes sparkled with delight. He liked the two old men. They had stood, with Brood, between him and grave peril far back in the old days when even the faintest gleam of hope apparently had been blotted out.

“Behold!” he cried, magnificently spreading his arms. “I am made glorious! See before you the prince of magic! See!”

With a swift, deft movement he snatched the half-smoked cigar from the limp fingers of Mr Riggs and, first holding it before their blinking eyes, tossed it into the air. It disappeared!

“Well, of all the——” began Mr Riggs, sitting up very straight. His eyes were following the rapid actions of the Hindu. Unlocking a drawer in the big table, the latter peered into it and then beckoned the old men to his side. There lay the cigar and beside it a much-needed match.

“I don't want to smoke it,” said Mr Riggs, vigorously declining his property. “The darned thing's bewitched.” Whereupon Ranjab took it out of the drawer and again threw it into the air. Then he calmly reached above his head and plucked a fresh cigar out of space, obsequiously tendering it to the amazed old man, who accepted it with a sheepish grin.

“You haven't lost any of your old skill,” said Mr Dawes, involuntarily glancing at his own cigar to make sure that he had it firmly gripped in his stubby fingers. “You ought to be in a sideshow, Ranjab.”

Ranjab paused, before responding, to extract a couple of billiard balls and a small paper-knife from the lapel of Dawes's coat.

“I am to perform to-night, sahib, for the mistress's guests. It is to be—what you call him? A side-show? Ranjab is to do his tricks for her, as the dog performs for his master.”

The smile had disappeared. His face was an impenetrable mask once more. Had their eyes been young and keen, however, they might have caught the flash of anger in his.

“Going to do all the old tricks?” cried Mr Riggs eagerly. “By George, I'd like to see 'em again; wouldn't you, Dan? I'm glad we've got our good clothes on. Now you see what comes of always being prepared for——”

“Sorry, sahib, but the master has request me to entertain you before the guests come up. Coffee is to be served here.”

“That means we'll have to clear out?” said Riggs slowly.

“But see!” cried Ranjab, genuinely sorry for them. He became enthusiastic once more. “See! I shall do them all—and better, too, for you.”

For ten minutes he astonished the old men with the mysterious feats of the Indian fakir. They waxed enthusiastic. He grinned over the pleasure he was giving them. Suddenly he whipped out a short, thin sword from its scabbard in his sash. The amazing, incomprehensible sword-swallowing act followed.

“You see, Ranjab has not forgot,” he cried in triumph. “He have not lost the touch of the wizard, aih.”

“You'll lose your gizzard some day, doing that,” said Dawes grimly. “It gives me the shivers.”

Then, before their startled, horror-struck eyes, the Hindu coolly plunged the glittering blade into his breast, driving it in to the hilt!

“Good Lord!” shouted the two old men.

Ranjab serenely replaced the sword in its scabbard.

“It is not always the knife that finds the heart,” said he, so slowly, so full of meaning, that even the old men grasped the significance of the cryptic remark.

“A feller can be fooled, no matter how closely he watches,” said Mr Dawes, and he was not referring to the amazing sword trick.

“No, sir,” said Mr Riggs, with gloomy irrelevance, “I don't like that woman.”

The old spell of the Orient had fallen upon the ancients. They were hearing the vague whisperings of voices that came from nowhere, as they had heard them years ago in the mystic silences of the East.

“Sh—h! One comes,” said Ranjab softly. “It will be the master's son.”

An instant later his closet door closed noiselessly behind him and the old men were alone, blinking at each other. There was no sound from the hall. They waited, watching the curtained door. At last they heard footsteps on the stairs, quick footsteps of the young.

Frederic strode rapidly into the room.