His face was livid with rage. For a moment he glowered upon the two old men, his fingers working spasmodically, his chest heaving with the volcanic emotions he was trying so hard to subdue. Then he whirled about to glare into the hall.

“In God's name, Freddy, what's happened?” cried Mr Riggs, all a-tremble.

They had never seen him in a rage before. There had been occasions when they had secretly criticised James Brood's treatment of the unhappy boy, but from the youth himself there had come no complaint, only the hurt, puzzled look of one who endures because an alternative does not suggest itself. Intuitively the old men knew that his present condition was due to something his father had said or done, and that it must have been unusually severe to have provoked the wrath that he made no effort to conceal.

It was not in their honest old hearts to hold grievance against the lad, notwithstanding his frequent periods of impatience where they were concerned, periods when they were admittedly as much at fault as he, by the way. Usually he made up for these lapses by a protracted season of sweetness and consideration that won back not only their sympathy, but the affection they had felt for him since his lonely boyhood days.

Some minutes passed before he could trust himself to speak. Ugly veins stood out on his pale temples as he paced the floor in front of them. Eventually Mr Dawes ventured the vital question in a somewhat hushed voice:

“Have you—quarrelled with your father, Freddy?”

The young man threw up his arms in a gesture of despair. There was a wail of misery in his voice as he answered:

“In the name of God, why should he hate me as he does? What have I done? Am I not a good son to him?”

“Hush!” implored Mr Dawes nervously. “He'll hear you.”

“Hear me!” cried Frederic, and laughed aloud in his recklessness. “Why shouldn't he hear me? I'll not stand it a day longer. He wouldn't think of treating a dog as he treats me. I—I—why, he is actually forcing me to hate him. I do hate him! I swear to Heaven it was in my heart to kill him down there just now. I———” He could not go on. He choked up and the tears rushed to his eyes. Abruptly turning away, he threw himself upon the couch and buried his face on his arms, sobbing like a little child.

The old men, distressed beyond the power of speech, mumbled incoherent words of comfort as they slowly edged toward the door. They tiptoed into the hall, and neither spoke until their bedroom door was closed behind them. Mr Dawes even tried it to see that it was safely latched.

“It's got to come,” said Mr Riggs, wiping his eyes but neglecting to blow his nose—recollecting in good time the vociferous noise that always attended the performance. “Yes, sir; it's bound to come. There's going to be a smash, mark my words. It can't go on.” He sat down heavily and stared rather pathetically at his friend, who was the picture of lugubrious concern.

“Yes, sir,” said Mr Dawes bleakly, “as sure as you're alive, Joey. That boy's spunk is going to assert itself some day, and then—good Lord, what then? He'll curse Jim to his teeth and—and Jim'll up and tell him the truth. I—I don't know what will happen then.”

Riggs swallowed hard—a gulping sound.

“Freddy's the kind of a feller who'll kill himself, Danny. He's as high strung as a harp. Something will snap. I hate to think of it. Poor lad! It—it ain't his fault that things are not as they ought to be.”

“If Jim Brood ever tells him he's no son of his, he'll break the boy's heart.”

“I'm not so sure of that,” said Riggs sagely. “Sometimes I think Freddy would be darned glad to know it.”

The curtains parted and Yvonne looked in upon the wretched Frederic. There was a look of mingled pain and commiseration in her wide-open eyes. For a moment she stood there regarding him in silence. Then she swiftly crossed the room to the couch in the corner, where he sat huddled up, his shoulders still shaking with the misery that racked him.

Her eyes darkened into the hungry, yearning look of one who would gladly share or assume all of the suffering of another whose happiness was dear to her—the look of a gentle mother. The mocking, seductive gleam was gone, and in its place was the glow of infinite pity. Her hand went out to touch the tousled hair, but stopped before contact. Slowly she drew back, with a glance of apprehension toward the door of the Hindu's closet. An odd expression of alarm crept into her eyes.

“Frederic,” she said softly, almost timorously.

He lifted his head quickly and then sprang to his feet. His eyes were wet and his lips were drawn. Shame possessed him. He tried to smile, but it was a pitiful failure.

“Oh, I'm so ashamed of—of——” he began in a choked voice.

“Ashamed because you have cried?” she said quickly. “But no! It is good to cry; it is good for men to cry. But when a strong man breaks down and sheds tears, I am—oh, I am heartbroken. A woman's tears mean nothing, but a man's? Oh, they are terrible! But come! You must compose yourself. The others will be here in a few minutes. I ran away from them on the pretext that I—but it is of no consequence. It is enough that I am here. You must go to your room and bathe your face. Go at once. Your father must not know that you have cried. He———”

“Curse him!” came from between Frederic's clenched teeth.

“Hush!” she cried, with another glance at Ranjab's door. She would have given much to know whether the Hindu was there or still below-stairs. “You must not say such——”

“I will say it, Yvonne—I'll say it to his face! I don't care if the others do see that I have been crying. I want them to know how he hurts me, and I want them to hate him for it.”

“For my sake, Frederic, calm yourself. I implore you to go to your room. Come back later, but go now.”

He was struck by the seriousness in her voice and manner. An ugly, crooked smile writhed about the corners of his mouth.

“I suppose you're trying to smooth it over so that they won't consider him a brute. Is that it?”

“Hush! Please, please! You know that my heart aches for you, mon ami. It was cruel of him, it was cowardly—yes, cowardly! Now I have said it!” She drew herself up and turned deliberately toward the little door across the room.

His eyes brightened. The crooked sneer turned into an imploring smile.

“Forgive me, Yvonne! You must see that I'm beside myself. I—I———”

“But you must be sensible. Remember he is your father. He is a strange man. There has been a great deal of bitterness in his life. He———”

“Have I been the cause of a moment's bitterness to him?” cried Frederic. “Why should he hate me? Why———”

“You are losing control of yourself again, Frederic.”

“But I can't go on the way things are now. He's getting to be worse than ever. I never have a kind word from him, seldom a word of any description. Never a kind look. Can't you understand how it goads me to———”

“Yes, yes! You've said all this before, and I have listened to you when I should have reminded you that he is my husband,” she said impatiently.

“By Heaven, I don't see how you can love him!” he cried boldly. “Sometimes I wonder if you do love him. He is as selfish, as unfeeling as oh, there's no word for it. Why, in the name of God, did you ever marry such a man? You couldn't have loved him.” Something in her expression brought him up sharply. Her eyes had narrowed; they had the look of a wary, hunted thing that has been driven into a corner. He stared. “Forgive me, Yvonne. I—I———”

“You don't know what you are saying,” she panted. “Are you accusing me?”

“No, no! What a coward, what a dog I am!” he cried abjectly.

A queer little smile stole into her face. It was even more baffling than the expression it displaced.

“I am your friend,” she said slowly. “Is this the way to reward me?”

He dropped to his knees and covered her hands with kisses, mumbling his plea for forgiveness.

“I am so terribly unhappy,” he said over and over again. “I'd leave this house to-night if it were not that I can't bear the thought of leaving you, Yvonne. I adore you. You are everything in the world to me. I———”

“Get up!” she cried out sharply. He lifted his eyes in dumb wonder and adoration, but not in time to catch the look of triumph that swept across her face.

“You will forgive me?” he cried, coming to his feet. “I—I couldn't help saying it. It was wrong—wrong! But you will forgive me, Yvonne?”

She turned away, walking slowly toward the door. He remained rooted to the spot, blushing with shame and dismay.

“Where are you going? To tell him?” he gasped.

She did not reply at once, but drew the portiÈres apart and peered down the stairs beyond, her attitude one of tense anxiety. As she faced him a smile of security was on her lips. She leaned gracefully against the jamb of the door, her arms dropping to her sides.

“Yes, I will forgive you,” she said calmly, and he realised in a flash that the verdict would have been different if there had been the remotest chance that his declaration was overheard. She would have denied him.

“I adore you, Yvonne,” he cried in low tones, striding swiftly toward her, only to halt as he caught the smile of derision in her eyes. “I don't mean it in the way you think. You are so good to me. You have given me so much joy and happiness, and—and you understand me so well. I could die for you, Yvonne. I would die for you. It's not the kind of love you are in the habit of commanding, you who are so glorious and so beautiful. It's the love of a dog for his master.”

She waited an instant, and then came toward him. He never could have explained the unaccountable impulse that forced him to fall back a few steps as she approached. Her eyes were gazing steadily into his, and her red lips were parted.

“That is as it should be,” she was saying, but he was never sure that he heard the words. His knees grew weak. He was in the toils! “Now you must pull yourself together,” she went on, in such a matter-of-fact tone that he straightened up involuntarily. “Come! Wipe the tear-stains from your cheeks.”

He obeyed, but his lip still quivered with the rage that had been checked by the ascendancy of another and even more devastating emotion. She was standing quite close to him now, her slender figure swaying slightly as if moved by some strange, rhythmic melody to which the heart beat time.

Her eyes were soft and velvety again, her smile tender and appealing. The vivid white of her arms and shoulders seemed to shed a soft light about her, so radiant was the sheen of the satin skin. Her gown was of black velvet, cut very low, and with scarcely any ornamentation save the great cluster of rubies at the top of her corsage. They gleamed like coals of fire against the skin, which appeared to absorb and reflect their warmth.

There was a full red rose in her dark hair. She wore no ear-rings, no finger-rings except the narrow gold band on her left hand. A wide, exquisitely designed gold bracelet fitted tightly about her right forearm, as if it had been welded to the soft white flesh. Yvonne's ears were lovely; she knew better than to disfigure them. Her hands were incomparably beautiful; she knew their full value unadorned.

She moved closer to him and with deft fingers applied her tiny lace handkerchief to his flushed cheeks and eyes, laughing audibly as she did so; a low gurgle of infinite sweetness and concern.

He stood like a statue, scarcely breathing, the veins in his throat throbbing violently.

“There!” she said, and deliberately touched the mouchoir to her own smiling lips before replacing it in her bodice next to the warm, soft skin. “Lydia must not see that her big baby sweetheart has been crying,” she went on, and if there was mockery in her voice it was lost on him. He could only stare as if bereft of all his senses.

“I have been thinking, Frederic,” she said, suddenly serious, “perhaps it would be better if we were not alone when the others come up. Go at once and fetch the two old men. Tell them I expect them here to witness the magic. It appears to be a family party, so why exclude them? Be quick!”

He dashed off to obey her command. She lighted a cigarette at the table, her unsmiling eyes fixed on the door to the Hindu's closet. Then, with a little sigh, she sank down on the broad couch and stretched her supple body in the ecstasy of complete relaxation.

The scene at the dinner-table had been most distressing. Up to the instant of the outburst her husband had been in singularly gay spirits, a circumstance so unusual that the whole party wondered not a little. If the others were vaguely puzzled by his high humour, not so Yvonne. She understood him better than anyone else in the world; she read his mind as she would have read an open book.

There was riot, not joy, in the heart of the brilliant talker at the head of the table. He was talking against the savagery that strained so hard at its leash.

At her right sat Frederic, at her left the renowned Dr Hodder, whose feats at the operating table were vastly more successful than his efforts at the dinner-table. He was a very wonderful surgeon, but equally famous as a bore of the first rank. Yvonne could not endure him. His jokes were antediluvian, and his laughter over them an abomination.

He had an impression, as many famous men have, that the sole duty of a dinner guest is to be funny in the loudest voice possible, drowning out all competition, and to talk glowingly about the soup, as if nothing else was required to convince the hostess that he considered her dinner irreproachable and her cook a jewel. Still, it was agreed Dr Hodder was a wonderful surgeon.

Mrs Desmond and Lydia were there. (This was an excellent opportunity to entertain them on an occasion of more or less magnitude.) There were also present Bertie Gunning and his pretty wife, Maisie, both of whom Yvonne liked; and the Followed sisters, with two middle-aged gentlemen from one of the clubs.

Miss Followed was forty, and proved it by cheerfully discussing events that happened at least that far back in her life. Her sister Janey was much younger, quite pretty, and acutely ingenuous. The middle-aged gentlemen ate very little. They were going to a supper at the Knickerbocker later on for someone whose name was Lilly. Occasionally it was Lil. It rather gratified them to be chided about the lady.

Frederic, deceived by his father's sprightly mood, entered rather recklessly into the lively discussion. He seldom took his eyes from the face of his beautiful stepmother, and many of his remarks were uttered sotto voce for her ear alone.

Suddenly James Brood called out his name in a sharp, commanding tone. Frederic, at the moment engaged in a low exchange of words with Yvonne, did not hear him. Brood spoke again, loudly, harshly. There was dead silence at the table.

“We will excuse you, Frederic,” said he, a deadly calm in his voice. The puzzled expression in the young man's face slowly gave way to a steady glare of fury. He could not trust himself to speak. “I regret exceedingly that you cannot take wine in moderation. A breath of fresh air will be of benefit to you. You may join us upstairs later on.”

“I haven't drunk a full glass of champagne,” began the young man in amazed protest.

Brood smiled indulgently, but there was a sinister gleam in his gray eyes. “I think you had better take my advice,” he said.

“Very well, sir,” said Frederic in a low, suppressed voice, his face paling. Without another word he got up from the table and walked out of the room.

He spoke the truth later on when he told Yvonne that he could not understand. But she understood. She knew that James Brood had endured the situation as long as it was in his power to endure, and she knew that it was her fault entirely that poor Frederic had been exposed to this crowning bit of humiliation.

As she sat in the dim study awaiting her stepson's reappearance with the two old men, her active, far-seeing mind was striving to estimate the cost of that tragic clash. Not the cost to herself or to Frederic, but to James Brood!

The Messrs Dawes and Riggs, inordinately pleased over the rehabitation, were barely through delivering themselves of their protestations of undying fealty when the sound of voices came up from the lower hall. Frederic started to leave the room, not caring to face those who had witnessed his unwarranted degradation. Yvonne hurried to his side.

“Where are you going?” she cried sharply.

“You cannot expect me to stay here——”

“But certainly!” she exclaimed. “Listen! I will tell you what to do.”

Her voice sank to an imperative whisper. He listened in sheer amazement, his face growing dark with rebellion as she proceeded to unfold her plan for a present victory over his father.

“No, no! I can't do that! Never, Yvonne,” he protested.

“For my sake, Freddy. Don't forget that you owe something to me. I command you to do as I tell you. It is the only way. Make haste! Open the window, get the breath of air he prescribed, and when they are all here, apologise for your condition!”

When Dr Hodder and Mrs Gunning entered the room a few minutes later young Brood was standing in the open window, drinking in the cold night air, and she was blithely regaling the blinking old men with an account of her stepson's unhappy efforts to drink all the wine in sight! As she told it, it was a most amusing experiment.

James Brood was the last to enter, with Miss Followed. He took in the situation at a glance. Was it relief that sprang into his eyes as he saw the two old men?

Frederic came down from the window, somewhat too swiftly for one who is moved by shame and contrition, and faced the group with a well-assumed look of mortification in his pale, twitching face. He spoke in low, repressed tones, but not once did he permit his gaze to encounter that of his father.

“I'm awfully sorry to have made a nuisance of myself. It does go to my head, and I—I dare say the heat of the room helped to do the work. I'm all right now, however. The fresh air did me a lot of good. Hope you'll all overlook my foolish attempt to be a devil of a fellow.” He hesitated a moment and then went on, more clearly. “I'm all right now, father. It shall not happen again, I can promise you that.”

A close observer might have seen the muscles of his jaw harden as he uttered the final sentence. He intended that his father should take it as a threat, not as an apology.

Brood was watching him closely, a puzzled expression in his eyes; gradually it developed into something like admiration. In the clamour of voices that ensued the older man detected the presence of an underlying note of censure for his own behaviour. For the first time in many years he experienced a feeling of shame.

Someone was speaking at his elbow. Janey, in her young, enthusiastic voice, shrilled something into his ear that caused him to look at her in utter amazement. It was so astounding that he could not believe he heard aright. He mumbled in a questioning tone, “I beg your pardon,” and she repeated her remark.

“How wonderfully like you Frederic is, Mr Brood.” Then she added: “Do you know, I've never noticed it until to-night? It's really remarkable.”

“Indeed,” Brood responded somewhat icily.

“Don't you think so, Mr Brood?”

“No, I do not, Miss Janey,” said he distinctly.

“Maisie Gunning was speaking of it just a few minutes ago,” went on the girl, unimpressed. “She says you are very much alike when you are—are———” here she foundered in sudden confusion.

“Intoxicated?” he inquired, without a smile.

She blushed painfully. “No, no! When you are angry. There, I suppose I shouldn't have said it, but———”

“It is a most gratifying discovery,” said he, and turned to speak to Mrs Desmond. He did not take his gaze from Frederic's white, set face, however; and, despite the fact that he knew the girl had uttered an idle commonplace, he was annoyed to find himself studying the features of Matilde's boy with an interest that seemed almost laughable when he considered it later on.

His guests found much to talk about in the room. He was soon being dragged from one object to another and ordered to reveal the history, the use, and the nature of countless things that obviously were intended to be just what they seemed; such as rugs, shields, lamps, and so forth. He was ably assisted by Messrs Riggs and Dawes, who lied prodigiously in a frenzy of rivalry.

“What a perfectly delightful Buddha!” cried Miss Janey, stopping in front of the idol. “How perfectly lovely he is—or is it a she, Mr Brood?”

He did not reply at once. His eyes were on Frederic and Yvonne, who had come together at last and were conversing earnestly apart from the rest of the group. He observed that Lydia was standing quite alone near the table, idly handling a magazine. To the best of his recollection, Frederic had scarcely spoken to the girl during the evening.

“This is where I work and play and dream, Miss Janey, and practise the ogre's art. It is a forbidden chamber, my sanctuary,”—with a glance at the idol—“and here is where I sometimes chop off pretty young women's heads and hang them from the window-ledge as a warning to all other birds of prey.”

Miss Janey laughed gleefully, attracting Yvonne's attention. Then she sang out across the room:

“Your husband says he is an ogre. Is he?”

Yvonne came languidly toward them.

“My husband manages to keep me in his enchanted castle without chains and padlocks, and that is saying a great deal in this day and age, my dear. Would you call him an ogre after that?”

“Perhaps it is the old story of the fairy queen and the ogre.”

“You may be sure I'd be an ogre if there was no other way of keeping you, my dear,” said Brood. There was something in his voice that caused her to look up into his face quickly.

Dr Hodder, being a wonderful surgeon, managed to cut his finger with a razor-edged kris at that instant, drawing a little shriek from Miss Followed, to whom he was jocularly explaining that scientific Malays used the thing in removing one another's appendices, the surgeon being the one who survived the operation.

During the excitement incident to the bloodletting the middle-aged gentlemen glanced furtively at their watches and indulged in a mental calculation from which they emerged somewhat easier in their minds. It still wanted an hour before the theatres were out.

“Dreadful bore,” yawned one of them behind his hand.

“Stupidest woman I ever sat next to,” said the other,

Then both looked at their watches again.

Frederic joined Lydia at the table.

“A delicious scene, wasn't it?” he asked bitterly in lowered tones.

Her fingers touched his.

“What did he mean, Freddy? Oh, I felt so sorry for you. It was dreadful.”

“Don't take it so seriously, Lyddy,” he said, squeezing her hand gently. Both of them realised that it was the nearest thing to a caress that had passed between them in a fortnight or longer. A wave of shame swept through him. “Dear old girl—my dear old girl,” he whispered brokenly.

Her eyes radiated joy, her lips parted in a wan, tremulous smile of surprise, and a soft sigh escaped them.

“My dear, dear boy,” she murmured, and was happier than she had been in weeks.

“See here, old chap,” said one of the middle-aged gentlemen, again consulting his watch as he loudly addressed his host, “can't you hurry this performance of yours along a bit? It is after ten, you know.”

“A quarter after,” said the other middle-aged gentleman.

“I will summon the magician,” said Brood. “Be prepared, ladies and gentlemen, to meet the devil. Ranjab is the prince of darkness.”

He lifted his hand to strike the gong that stood near the edge of the table.

Involuntarily four pairs of eyes fastened their gaze upon the door to the Hindu's closet. Three mellow, softly reverberating “booms” filled the room. Almost instantly the voice of the Hindu was heard.

“Aih, sahib!”

He came swiftly into the room from the hall, and not from his closet. The look of relief in Yvonne's eyes was short-lived. She saw amazement in the faces of the two old men—and knew!

“After we have had the feats of magic,” Brood was saying, “Miss Desmond will read to you, ladies and gentlemen, that chapter of our journal——”

“My word!” groaned both of the middle-aged gentlemen, looking at their watches.

“Relating to——”

“You'll have to excuse me, Brood, really, you know. Important engagement up-town——”

“Sit down, Cruger,” exclaimed Hodder. “The lady won't miss you.”

“Relating to our first encounter with the great and only Ranjab,” pursued Brood oracularly. “We found him in a little village far up in the mountains. He was under the sentence of death for murder. By the way, Yvonne, the kris you have in your hand is the very weapon the good fellow used in the commission of his crime. He was in prison and was to die within a fortnight after our arrival in the town. I heard of his unhappy plight and all that had led up to it. His case interested me tremendously. One night, a week before the proposed execution, my friends and I stormed the little prison and rescued him. We were just getting over the cholera and needed excitement. That was fifteen years ago. He has been my trusted body-servant ever since. I am sure you will be interested in what I have written about that thrilling adventure.”

Yvonne had dropped the ugly knife upon the table as if it were a thing that scorched her fingers.

“Did he—really kill a man?” whispered Miss Janey with horror in her eyes.

“He killed a woman. His wife, Miss Janey. She had been faithless, you see. He cut her heart out. And now, Ranjab, are you ready?”

The Hindu salaamed.

“Ranjab is always ready, sahib,” said he.