he
artificially haggard face--eyes wide open and fearful.

"Bend not that beautiful body so," whispered Chunda Lal, "that is
straight and supple as the willow branch. O, Miska"--his voice
trembled emotionally and he that had been but a moment since so fierce
stood abashed before her--"for you I become as the meanest and the
lowest; for you I die!"

Miska started back from him as a muffled outcry sounded in the room
beyond the half-open door. Chunda Las started also, but almost
immediately smiled--and his smile was tender as a woman's.

"It is the voice of the black smoke that speaks, Miska. We are alone.
Those are dead men speaking from their tombs."

"Ah-Fang-Fu is in the shop," whispered Miska.

"And there he remain."

"But what of ... _him!"_

Miska pointed toward the eastern wall of the room in which they stood.

Chunda Lal clenched his hands convulsively and turned his eyes in the
same direction.

"It is of _him_," he replied in a voice of suppressed vehemence, "it
is of _him_ I would speak." He bent close to Miska's ear. "In the
creek, below the house, is lying the motor-boat. I go to-day to bring
it down for him. He goes to-night to the other house up the river.
To-morrow I am gone. Only you remaining."

"Yes, yes. He also leaves England to-morrow."

"And you?"

"I go with him," she whispered.

Chunda Lal glanced apprehensively toward the door. Then:

"Do not go with him!" he said, and sought to draw Miska into his arms.
"O, light of my eyes, do not go with him!"

Miska repulsed him, but not harshly.

"No, no, it is no good, Chunda Lal. I cannot hear you."

"You think"--the Hindu's voice was hoarse with emotion--"that _he_ will
trace you--and kill you?"

_"Trace me!"_ exclaimed Miska with sudden scorn. "Is it necessary for
him to trace me? Am I not already dead except for _him!_ Would I be
his servant, his lure, his slave for one little hour, for one short
minute, if my life was my own!"

Beads of perspiration gleamed upon the brown forehead of the Hindu,
and his eyes turned from the door to the eastern wall and back again
to Miska. He was torn by conflicting desires, but suddenly came
resolution.

"Listen, then." His voice was barely audible. "If I tell you that your
life _is_ your own--if I reveal to you a secret which I learned in the
house of Abdul Rozan in Cairo----"

Miska watched him with eyes in which a new, a wild expression was
dawning.

"If I tell you that life and not de