of this open door.

"This, Miss Abingdon," he said, "is a nearly exact reproduction of
a room of a house which I have in Ispahan. I do not claim that it is
typical, but does its manner appeal to you?"

"Immensely," she replied, looking around her.

She became aware of a heavy perfume of hyacinths, and presently observed
that there were many bowls of those flowers set upon little tables, and
in niches in the wall.

"Yet its atmosphere is not truly of the Orient."

"Are such apartments uncommon, then, in Persia?" asked Phil, striving
valiantly to interest herself in the conversation.

"I do not say so," he returned, crossing one delicate foot over the
other, in languorous fashion. "But many things which are typically of
the Orient would probably disillusion you, Miss Abingdon."

"In what way?" she asked, wondering why Mrs. McMurdoch had not joined
them.

"In many subtle ways. The real wonder and the mystery of the East lie
not upon the surface, but beneath it. And beneath the East of to-day
lies the East of yesterday."

The speaker's expression grew rapt, and he spoke in the mystic manner
which she knew and now dreaded. Her anxiety for the return of Paul
Harley grew urgent--a positive need, as, meeting the gaze of the long,
magnetic eyes, she felt again, like the touch of cold steel, all the
penetrating force of this man's will. She was angrily aware of the fact
that his gaze was holding hers hypnotically, that she was meeting it
contrary to her wish and inclination. She wanted to look away but found
herself looking steadily into the coal-black eyes of Ormuz Khan.

"The East of yesterday"--his haunting voice seemed to reach her from a
great distance--"saw the birth of all human knowledge and human power;
and to us the East of yesterday is the East of today."

Phil became aware that a sort of dreamy abstraction was creeping over
her, when in upon this mood came a sound which stimulated her weakening
powers of resistance.

Dimly, for all the windows of the room were closed, she heard a car come
up and stop before the house. It aroused her from the curious condition
of lethargy into which she was falling. She turned her head sharply
aside, the physical reflection of a mental effort to remove her gaze
from the long, magnetic eyes of Ormuz Khan. And:

"Do you think that is Mr. Harley?" she asked, and failed to recognize
her own voice.

"Possibly," returned the Persian, speaking very gently.

With one ivory